God's hand
by d'elfe
Summary: Frances roams the land, assuaging her revenge upon men and gaining favors from families slighted in this lawless world. Until one day, she stumbles upon a man kicked out of a coach.
1. Chapter 1 - A coach ride

**_ Hey. I have debate a long time whether to post this in my 'Forever yours' story that treats of Tristan (Ming Arthur 2004 – Mads Mikkelsen) or here. I am still unsure but since this had been ready for at least three weeks and I'm rather stuck on the other side, I'll post it._**

**_After watching the salvation, I just thought I would turn the tables a little. First, because I can't stand children being killed, movie or not. Secondly, because usually Tristan (and any reincarnation) is a quick-tempered one, and Frances the one who soothes him. I'm attempting a little role reversal here. Let me know if you liked it._**

The cloud of dirt had become a coach some time ago, but Frances wasn't about to push Haren today. They had done their fair share of travelling, and off they went to another town, leaving behind the creepy village where the mayor, an oldish man with white hair, eyed her suspiciously. Not that she wasn't used to it, mind you. A young woman of barely twenty-six, travelling alone, clad in men's clothes and armed to the teeth always attracted attention. Her long mane of deep red hair didn't quite help either, and she gathered a lot of looks from the inhabitants wherever she wandered. Scornful from those puritan women who never showed a piece of flesh even in scorching heat, interested from men wondering if they could have her – easily dissuaded those ones – or dreamy ones from the children. Frances didn't care much for it; she'd been on her own for ten years now, wandering like a duck with no head, without aim, but not without a goal. For her anger guided her to do justice whenever she went. In this wide expand of lawless lands, the young woman dealt with criminals and dishonesty swiftly. If she had kept no hope for her – Haren was her only friend – the young woman tried to help those who still had something to live for.

And today, someone seemed in need, for a man went flying through the coach's door and rolled on the ground with a cry of pain. Then he stilled, probably stunned. Frances urged her mare forward with urgency, her swift strides covering the distance easily until she reached him. The figure was trying to sit up, struggling to regain his bearings as she leapt from her horse.

— "Are you hurt, sir?" she asked as she knelt, hand on her dagger.

The man's head snapped up, his gaze meeting hers. And she was lost. Golden brown, widened by fear and anguish, pleaded to her as he grabbed her sleeve. Frances should have recoiled – she never allowed anyone to manhandle her – but the desperation that marred his handsome features were enough to make her heart stutter. Her faithful dagger didn't even come to his throat, a reflex she honed for fifteen years.

— "My wife," he said. "My wife and my son! They will … they will rape her."

Frances saw red, tearing her sleeve from the man's grasp as she stood, her teeth grinding. Rape, the most abject crime of cowards. How many men had she emasculated to make up for the one she never could?

— "How many?" she asked, her tone icy.

— "Two men, drunk."

For a guy just thrown from a couch, he certainly could summarise a situation. She assessed the figure wearily. Sturdy constitution, but not in shape to get in a battle within the next five minutes. His gaze was slightly unfocused, a concussion perhaps. Too bad. Frances turned around and jumped on Haren, yelling at her to make haste. Yiha!

The chase went smoothly. Her horse knew that its mistress was in a killing spree, a red veil blinding her thoughts. She could feel the anger in the pressure of her thighs, the shaking breath she took as they sped, the flexing fingers around the reins, awaiting for her blade to plunge into flesh. Bastards! Son of whores and the devil; they would pay for this. Attacking a woman and his son, in front of him nonetheless. Worthless spawns of hell; they would soon meet their creator, for there would be no other judgement than hers.

Frances exhaled, trying to regain a little control. This was a hostage situation, and she didn't know if the driver was an accomplice. Saving mother and child was a priority. If her will to live only resumed to not being killed, she thrived to protect those who had something to live for. And the look in this man's eyes, the desperate plea was enough for her to rein her anger. As she came closer to the couch, she chose to climb on the top to remain silent. Haren kept steady as she stood on the saddle, grasping the top railings in a swift move and swinging her legs up. In a moment, she was lying on the top of the coach, one lone trunk secured at the top. The driver had not noticed anything as he kept his course – probably half-drunk as well. All right, there was dust and wind, and the sun probably blinded him now that it sank, but a man had just been expelled forcefully from his coach, and the man didn't even react! Men. Her mare was still running behind, and she sent her a hand signal to turn around.

— "Go!" she urged, the sound of hooves thundering on the ground. "Get the man"

Haren slowed down, then turned around. Smart animal, the very best; she couldn't possibly count the number of times she had saved her life. Not that she cared about living … much. She only cared about not dying. Her Winchester was still strapped to Haren's saddle; Frances hoped the husband knew how to use it if needed, but who, in this god forsaken world, didn't? The long gun would be useless inside a coach, she would have to rely on her handgun and dagger. Frances licked her lips in anticipation, heart pounding, nerves frazzled by the ride. Ready to rip into those drunkards and expose their innards to the vultures. The wind whipped at her face, the heat just bearable now that autumn came along. The young woman crawled to the side, shaken by the uneven ground below the coach's wheels. She then secured her hold over the side railing, feet propped against the secured trunk in an awkward position. She needed to use surprise and a sheer amount of strength to dislodge those bastards.

Then she tapped on the door repeatedly, banging mercilessly until swear words echoed and a guy opened the door to pass his upper body through, gun in hand. He didn't see her at first but she had a nice point of view over his sorry mop of greasy hair.

— "What the fuck?"

She didn't give him time to spot her. Frances reached for his upper arm, her movements fast like a snake, then shoved him brutally forward. The guy lost his balance and tumbled head first to the ground, rolling like a rag doll in the dirt. She didn't feel sorry for him, not five minutes ago, they had pushed the man she found on the road with equal brutality. Her free hand lingered over the gun at her waist, but she quickly chose not to shoot. First, it would inform the second man where she was, and the precision of those guns were shaky at best. Let alone on a quivering coach running full speed. The wind whipped her hair in her face and she very nearly toppled over when the back wheel jumped on a pothole. Refraining a yelp of surprise, she used the momentum to recover her balance and slid to the other side of the coach. Dagger long knife in hand, she jumped feet first into the window, hands secured on the railing. Her feet ripped the flap that covered it, and she bumped her lower back on the wooden frame as she landed upon somebody.

Stifling a cry of pain – damn, it hurt! —, Frances watched as the woman, a lovely blond with terrified wide eyes, tried to pull herself from the seat she had toppled over. Poor lady, she would be badly bruised tomorrow. For the moment though, a dirty haired bastard, reeking of alcohol, was attempting to reach for the kid's arm. If he did… God help them. Frances jumped like a devil out of its box, grabbing the boy's arm and nearly ripping it off as she pulled mightily to send him to his mother. The kid crashed into the woman's embrace beside her, eyes wide with shock. Who knew the trauma he had been through, seeing his father sent to hell through the door, and his mother being raped before his very eyes?

Anger fuelled Frances' body as she took in her pitiful opponent. Disgust, shame and scorn for a man about to die. Thank to the alcohol, the man was too slow to pull his gun, and the young woman jumped upon him like a wild cat. But in her red haze, she failed to see the dagger in his hand. The man lashed out, and only by the grace of her quick reflexes did she only collect a slight cut on her cheek. Frances snarled as the man jumped upon her, head butting him in the most painful of manners. She saw stars while he clutched his nose, but she didn't need precision to stab him. A faint gurgle erupted from the man as she sliced, again and again, into his soft and feeble body. Until she regained the entirety of her eyesight, and looked upon the man in disgust.

— "You only got what you deserve," she spat.

Then her knife was buried in his heart, and the man stopped breathing altogether. Wiping the side of her cheek, Frances turned to the woman who had mercifully covered her son's eyes.

— "It's all right now, you are safe."

The blonde lady, blood splattered upon her dress, only watched her in shock. Frances frowned, wiping her knife on the dead man's shirt, then sheathing it.

— "We will get your husband, all right?"

The woman shook her head, eyes darting from her, covered in blood, to the man she had used as a pincushion. Way to go Frances, to make a mess before a ten-year-old kid. His dad probably wouldn't be too pleased with the subtlety of her rescue. The coach was still going full speed, and Frances drew her gun. The blond woman started, her grip tightening on her son. Traumatised. A new wave of anger washed through Frances, and she gritted her teeth so badly that her jaw protested. The pain pulsing in her lower back only fuelled her hate further, and she lifted her hands to signify to the woman that she meant no harm. The man on the road had had an accent, maybe his wife didn't speak the language. Or not at all.

Frances tapped several times on the side of the diligence to get the driver's attention, then she passed her head through the window.

— "Hey!" she screamed. "Stop! Stop the coach, you fool!"

The bulky man barely spared her a glance before he turned to the road anew. Pissed by his behaviour, Frances huffed.

— "Stay inside," she told the woman.

The blonde watched her warily, but didn't make a noise. Damn, she didn't understand her. So she gestured to the seat and said,

— "Stay. Sit"

At last, the woman seemed to get her order and nodded. At once, Frances climbed through the window. The jolting coach was still running full speed, and she grit her teeth as she pulled herself upwards. Then she walked to the trunk and secured her knees on either side to keep from falling. There were two men on the driver's seat, the bulky driver and another one. She hailed them from the roof, her gun aiming at the first one's head.

— "Stop now or die"

Beside him, the other man stared at her before he lightly shifted.

— "Don't!" she yelled before he could pull his gun.

The driver ordered the horses to stop, and once the noise of the running wheels and hooves had subsided, the young woman actually sat on the trunk.

— "Are you fucking idiots? The lady's husband has been thrown through the door, and another one followed not five minutes after. Didn't you hear anything?"

Something suspicious glinted in their eyes, something she didn't like at all and she wondered where their allegiance lay.

— "Get down," she ordered.

— "Is this an attack?" asked the sneaky man, eyes darting everywhere.

— "Until I know what happened, yes. Now drop your guns into the dirt, and step over here."

From her dominant position, she could see everything and they complied without too much protest. Perhaps that her blood covered shirt and riding pants deterred him from attempting something. Then she started her interrogation, asking about the two men who had attacked the woman, asking why they had not heard her cries, getting more and more frustrated when she got half-truths and partial answers. Were they protecting someone? Fearing someone?

— "Well," eventually said the sneaky man. "You never know with those drunks."

Realisation hit.

— "You knew who they were," she said, her voice stern.

The bulky driver suddenly fidgeted on his feet, his eyebrows drawn in a frown.

— "Were?"

— "Yes. One is dead, the other took a tumble down the road."

Her nonchalant words seemed to have a greater effect than expected, for both men blanched suddenly.

— "Delarue will kill us if he knows we were here," said the sneaky man to the driver.

Damn, the Delarue clan! The most feared, powerful and extended clan of the area. Just her luck! No wonder those guys were fidgety, if the man she killed was part of the clan, payback would be swift and deadly. The two men were now bickering like old crones, making it hard to think.

— "No. He will kill her. We ain't done nothing"

— "You idiot!" spat the smaller man.

Her nerves got the better of her, and she shouted at the top of her lungs.

— "Shut the hell up!"

Her outburst seemed to quiet the men down, albeit they sent her a glare. She couldn't care less about their feelings; she needed to know how he connected to this mess. The familiar sound of horse hooves pounding on the ground called her attention to the barren land. A secretive smile bloomed on her features; Haren was galloping at breakneck speed, a very skilled rider on her back. Relief flooded her at seeing him unharmed and she wondered, for a second, why it mattered so much. He had gathered the reins in hand, and her Winchester in the other one, cutting an impressive figure as he thundered to reach them. Even from afar, his expression was scary, the lines of his face grim, his sharp jaw set. For a moment, the rider turned into a medieval warrior, bow in hand, long shaggy mane flying behind him as he lay waste on a battlefield. She blinked, and the vision was gone. Only to find herself in the line of the driver's gun.

Cold dread pooled in her stomach, and she kicked herself for her inattention. What was it, with this man, that called to her so profoundly that she now found herself in mortal danger? The rider didn't slow down at the reversal of situation; he was probably worried sick for his family. Frances prayed that she would still be alive to see him reunited with his loved ones, her knuckles whitening on the gun she still held fast. The other man gathered his own gun from the ground, and pointed it at her. Two against one. This was a deadlock. She pointing her gun at his head, the driver at hers. Her sole advantage was the low sun, blinding him slightly, and her position on the roof. Would it save her? Only if the man was a very, very poor shooter. Which meant a big, fat, no, for diligence drivers usually knew how to defend themselves.

Sweat trickled down her brow as the driver spoke his intentions.

— "I'm sorry, we just can't let us walk away from this. It would be our death warrant."

— "So you're just going to hand me over to the Delarue clan?"

The driver winced, but his friends had a sick sort of smile upon his face. That man was a coward like no other. Frances was stalling; she knew they had no intention of letting her walk away. They would bring her body instead. Eyes squinting, she prepared herself for the killing bullet. The driver cocked the hammer, hesitating for a second, probably mislead by her youthful appearance. Or the fact that she was a woman.

— "Shoot her already!" came the snivelling voice of the other man.

A determined look passed upon the driver's features before a loud bang echoed in the silence. Winchester. The man dropped dead before her eyes, and Frances reacted quickly, dodging around the trunk as the snivelling man tried to lodge a bullet inside her chest. A second bang echoed, a second thud on the floor. Damn, the man could shoot on horseback like a sniper! And didn't hesitate. Relieved beyond measure, Frances crawled around the piece of luggage to make sure that both men were down before she jumped to the ground. The snivelling man wasn't dead yet, his gaping wound bleeding profusely on the ground and she took the gun away before he could retaliate. His legs were shaking, and blood poured from his mouth; a gruesome sight. But Frances had dealt death enough time not to be moved with this pitiful man.

— "The Delarue will get you. And then…"

Frances shot a bullet in his head, ending his suffering without a second thought. Then she turned around, just in time to greet the man who had just saved her life. Panting, and dishevelled, he jumped from Haren's back in a graceful move. Frances wiped the blood away from her cheek right before he handed her the Winchester with a worried look on his face.

— "My wife…" were the first words which passed his lips.

For this, he earned her respect.

— "Inside, with your child and the dead bastard. Safe"

Relief flooded his light maroon eyes, and his posture sagged so much that she feared he might crumble at her feet. But the man steeled himself, and called in language foreign to her ears. It was Nordic, for sure, for she could recognise Spanish, Italian and German. The tall man took an uneasy step before the blond woman appeared through the door. He didn't move, rooted to the spot, and Frances could only contemplate how his features remained closed off when his eyes conveyed all the love and joy in the world. It was rather strange in this weird world where drunkards danced and yelled their disagreements all night, making such a ruckus that she scarcely slept in towns.

Then the woman smiled at her husband, pushing her son down the stairs, and Frances's knees went weak when she saw the expression of pure unaltered joy upon her fair features. She watched them cover the distance, watched the man gather his family in a tight embrace, his breath short, her tears of relief at seeing him alive. He gathered his son close, hoisting him up entirely to bury his face in his neck. His wife caressed his cheek, tears flowing freely, before she kissed his lips and circled his tall frame with her arms. Then they stayed for a while, a family, a tight unit against the adversity of the world, as the evening breeze flapped their hair about.

Frances's eyes took in the joy in their features, the pain and traumatic even erased by the happiness of being alive, of having reunited despite all the odds. And it made her sad, and happy at the same time. Happy that she had, once more, managed to preserve the little happiness that still existed in this world. Sad that hers had been carried away by her tears fifteen years ago, as she found her father dead on the floor, and was defiled in the most brutal of manners. That day she had sworn to bring death to all men who abused women and children, sworn to bring justice to this crazy world, giving hope but keeping none to herself. And today, she had accomplished her mission.

Frances walked to Haren, securing the Winchester back to the straps before she fished out a clean cloth to clean her cheek. It stung like hell, but the bleeding was already easing. It would probably scar for a while, maybe not forever; nothing life threatening. She patted the horse's panting flank before encircling her neck altogether. Resting her head upon the horse's coat, she whispered.

— "You have done well, Haren. Thank you so much"

The horse neighed its appreciation, and Frances chuckled, catching the beast's eye.

— "Did you enjoy the ride?"

Even if she was a good rider – fifteen years spend on the saddle had honed her skills – she had to admit she was still impressed by the performance of the unknown man. And his incredible aim on a galloping horse. She wondered who he was; certainly not a peaceful farmer. By then, she realised they had all turned to her. Back to business; they needed to get out of there before the Delarue clan came after them. Frances features turned serious as she approached the trio, her eyes locking with his intense gaze. There was such warmth in them that she suddenly felt like combusting. The man held out his hand, and she went to shake it in greeting. But when his warm fingers enclosed hers, a shock ran through her spine. He brought his other hand around hers, squeezing it tightly. For a moment, Frances gaped, speechless, at the intimacy of this gesture, as if the world had stopped spinning altogether. Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath short, and she eventually willed her brain to take a step back. The man released her hand; he seemed slightly flustered. Or maybe she was dreaming, for his smooth voice suddenly washed over her like a silky river.

— "I don't know how I could ever repay you. On behalf of my family, I thank you."

Frances remained silent. She had risked her life for them, she wasn't about to dismiss it as a banality.

— "I need no payment, sir."

The man eyed her for a moment, trapping her in his gaze, as if assessing the truth of her words. Then he motioned his family forward.

— "I'm Jon. My wife, Marie, and my son Kresten"

Yon. This is how he pronounced his name. The 'r' were hard, the same as in French, and his son's name sounded very much like Christian.

— "Frances," she said. "I am happy to meet you all. My father was French"

— "We are Danish," he said.

Then his son gave her a smile, and presented his hand for her to shake.

— "Ja. Jeg er Kresten"

Both Marie and Frances a laugh relieved at the child's willingness to connect after such an ordeal. Jon's eyes slightly squinted, lines showing at the sides to indicate he wasn't made of ice. But aside from this, his features did not move an inch. A difficult man to read, that great Dane.

— "I used three of your cartridges. I will get some new ammunition for you in town."

Three. Not two. So the third one…

— "Don't worry about it. Two of them to save my life. You, sir, are a good shoot."

— "I was a sniper in the last Second Schleswig War" was his easy explanation.

— "This explains a lot…" she muttered

But not the vision of him, mounting a grey mare with a recurve bow in hand. His interrogative look brought her back to reality.

— "That other man I threw from the carriage?"

The longer she kept to herself, the more her social skills deteriorated. But this former soldier seemed to use the same channel, for he understood her lack of sentences, and responded in kind. Not the most talkative of men.

— "I killed him."

— "Good"

If her easy dismissal of yet another murder surprised him, Jon didn't show it.

— "Listen. Those two men were affiliated to the Delarue clan."

The man took a sharp intake of breath, lines tensing around his mouth. So he knew the danger they were in now.

— "The driver and his aid wanted to kill me to save their asses. In a day or two, you will have the whole clan on your back, seeking revenge."

— "What about you?"

Frances sent him a smile, sparing a glance to his wife and son who were keeping close to him, her little white hand enclosed in his much bigger one. They really made a cute couple, the dove and the warrior.

— "Me too. Nothing new here. But I think you should take your son and wife to safety."

Jon looked at his wife, hesitation spread upon his features before he turned to her.

— "Where? We have nothing more but the land I own here. I cannot condemn them to starve."

— "You condemn them to death if you stay."

The man took a few moments to consider his options. Then a resolved look passed on his face.

— "The mayor is buying land. I can sell, and we'll move further west. But I need to get my brother first."

Frances nodded at his quick thinking.

— "Good plan. In the meantime, I can take your wife and son with me. You'll meet us on the road. What do you say?"

There was only a slight hesitation when he nodded his acceptance. If the fiery lady accepted to protect his family, in the meantime, he would find a way to get his money, and flee this corrupted city who allowed bandits to make the law. What pushed him to entrust their well-being to such a maiden? He did not know. But he trusted her with his life, and of those close to his heart.

That night, they shared a meal of beans over a campfire, Frances cleaning her Winchester as she listened to the family speak this lilting language she knew nothing about. She let them vent as her mind considered her options. It would probably take two days to bring them to safety, a few villages away from there. She knew one, in particular, that could fit their needs, where the sheriff wasn't corrupted and the villagers no cowards bowing to the Delarue law. There dwelt a family who owed her badly from a day she had saved their daughter from the clutches of a young man; they could probably house them a little while.

When time came to sleep, Jon gathered mother and son in the coach, and a long moment passed when she thought she would not see him until the morning. But after a while, the Danish voices died and he stepped out. Frances' eyebrows rose in surprise; she expected him to sleep with his family after the terrible afternoon they had been through.

— "Would you like to sleep inside?" he offered.

Frances almost scoffed at this show of manner. It was refreshing to be treated kindly and not like a pariah. But there were dangers everywhere in this blasted country, and she was rather used to sleeping in the wild. Haren always kept her safe and warm.

— "Nah, thank you. Two sets of eyes are better than one. And this way we can rotate"

The man nodded, sending a few words back in Danish, and he sat beside the fire. The glowing flames projected shadows across his chiselled features, sharpening them even more. High cheekbones, hair of brown and ash falling on the side, strong stature and sensual lips. He was an exotically handsome man; Marie was a lucky wife indeed. This though, so fleeting, started Frances to the bone. Never before had she found a man attractive; never before had she considered a woman lucky for having a man. To her, men were … ugh! Wild beasts with not control over their lust. Kicking herself internally, she tried to convince herself that it was because his care for them was obvious. That he was no such man, his control permeating his every word, his every movement. Still…

Fortunately, his beautiful voice shook her out of her inner rant.

— "I cannot express my gratitude to you, Frances."

— "You already have," she said with finality.

Not that she scorned his thanks; it meant a lot to her, like always. Whenever a wife, a father, a husband thanked her for her actions, she felt like she had found a place in the world. This time was no exception. When his voice rose again, it was but a murmur across the crackling of the fire.

— "Should you ever need something that is in my power to grant, I will gladly oblige"

A strange vision came to her mind, a wave of peacefulness and completion such as she had ever known. A sense of belonging so overwhelming that it nearly brought tears to her eyes. All of it encompassed within the smouldering orbs staring right back at her. Panting, Frances took a shuddering breath. What had just happened?

— "I will remember it"

Jon nodded, then settled for the night beside the fire, wrapping his coat around him to keep the chill at bay. Nights in the desert were always cold, and she unwrapped her blanket to spread it over him. The man gave her a curious look, as if he could pierce her walls and see deep within, looking for her motives.

— "I cannot…" he started as he sat.

— "Keep it. I'll get it back when it is my turn to sleep."

The man settled back on his back, one on his hands propped behind his head.

— "Why are you helping us?" he eventually asked.

— "I fight to preserve what is worth preserving."

Her attempt to sidestep wasn't unnoticed, and Jon cornered her immediately.

— "Why?"

Silence greeted his question as Frances mulled on her thoughts. She hated making a spectacle of her life, hated being reminded of the drama that had taken her father, and her innocence. The scars ran deep: some still bleeding. She didn't trust men, lusty, uncontrollable creatures that used their superior strength to submit women to their will. And even if this particular man brought her a strange sense of peace, she was nowhere ready to spill her tragic story. Catching his eye warily, she only mumbled.

— "Long story"

— "Fair game"

And he asked no more, respecting her privacy. Frances watched the reflection of the fire on his high cheekbones as he slept, wondering, sometimes, why they had not been tattooed. The strange idea kept coming back… Weird. Who was he, that man who caused such turmoil in the depth of her heart?


	2. Chapter 2 - Pole Dancing

How long he had been tied up to that pole… Jon didn't exactly remember. A day, and a night only, but every single second felt like an hour, blurring into a haze of pain. His foot throbbed painfully – the ankle was sprained – and the damn mayor had taken his boots to get the hidden money from the sale of his land. That bastard! His brother was in jail, kept by that coward of a Sheriff who didn't have the balls to go against the Delarue. Jon prayed for him, that they wouldn't deliver him to the clan. And now, Marie and Kresten would be left without a penny in the wilderness. The future looked very, very bleak suddenly, and he kicked himself for getting back to town to sell his land. But at least, they were alive, and not alone. That fiery woman, Frances, she would keep them safe. Would she? Yeah, she would. He trusted her. She had saved them, she had put a bullet into a man's head for trying to hurt them. Torn another to shreds to prevent Marie from being raped. She would … she would … when he was gone. She was a vengeful fairy … and they would need her, because there was no surviving this. At least, he had seen his family before death took him. Seven years apart, only to die at the hands of the Delarue clan. A pity.

And they were not going to make it easy for him either. His throat was parched, the thirst a torture, even now that the sun had sunk and coolness of the night slightly abated the hurt of his wounds. His arms, strung over his head, felt like they would be ripped any moment. His consciousness was coming and going, the cuts and bruises on his face not even painful anymore. All was still except for his heavy breathing; the excruciating position forcing him to take shallow breaths. His head sunk, the muscles of his back protesting but he couldn't care less. He couldn't stand straight anymore, everything hurt. Jon lost the fight, and slumped forward into unconsciousness.

The piercing cry of a bird of prey jolted him awake … or so he thought, for he was now contemplating the wide greenish plains and rolling hills of Briton. Clad in armour, brothers in arms in line, Arthur further down the lane. Ready for battle. And the young fairy, Frances, who always fought by his side no matter what. His wife. His mate, the woman who watched his back and always patched him up. She died that day upon the hill, her small hand enclosed in his, his body lying a few feet from hers, her blood mingling with his as it soaked the battlefield. Together they left this world. Together…

— "Jon"

Her voice, trying to reach him, whispering as a warm hand lingered on his cheek. Rain poured over him, washing his sweaty figure, bringing a small measure of relief. But not as much as her touch. It was the same gesture she bestowed upon him every time she kissed him. Her slender, soft fingers upon his cheekbone. Weak, he was so weak now. But his eyes opened for a scant moment, only to meet her warm chocolate eyes before unconsciousness claimed him again.

Frances was pissed beyond measure. The veil of anger at hearing that Jon had been deliberately delivered to the Delarue clan only matched her fear. That sorry excuse for a Sheriff ! Giving an innocent man to those sons of bitches ! The young woman hid in an alley, awaiting the little procession of puritans to gather in the church. She ought to burn it to the ground, with all those bootlickers inside ! The only thing that prevented her from pounding on the Sheriff on this very moment was the tiny hope that maybe…. maybe Jon was still alive. She needed to get him at any cost. For his family to cherish, or to bury. She couldn't leave him there. She couldn't. Perhaps his brother, currently held in jail, could be of help.

The hunch that something was wrong had followed her all the way, some kind of sixth sense, telling her that things had gone awry. She didn't understand it, why she cared for Jon Jensen – what a weird name – so much. Why she cared for his happiness. Perhaps he represented something, the perfect little family that she might have had… No. There was something deeper in their connexion, something she couldn't place, nearly overwordly. But she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that crept up her spine as time passed. Seeing that he had not joined them on the road, she had entrusted Marie and her son so the Cheston's family, and turned Haren around for a mighty gallop. And even if her mare had covered the distance with haste, dread still clung to her as she came to this forsaken town.

She didn't bother to be sneaky… too much. Once the population was safety enclosed in the house of God – as if it could protect them against the Delarue – the young woman strode to the Sheriff's, keeping to the shadow of the porch. She was about to kick the door down when a man sprang forth, shoving her aside with so much strength that she nearly fell over the railing.

— "Lort", he exclaimed. "Sorry"

And the man, a very tall blond guy, scurried along. His swear word sunk in – Danish ! – and Frances started running after him. Damn those longs legs, he was already mounted when she came close.

— "Hey, wait !", she said, keeping her voice down.

The man gave her this piercing stare that told her she had less than ten seconds before he scampered out of town. The lines of his face were heard, his cheekbones high, a likeness in his features that she recognized.

— "You are Jon's brother ?"

The man cocked his gun, aiming it at her face.

— "Who asks ?"

Frances swallowed. Damn, like brother… like soldier. He was not a man to be trifled with.

— "Frances, the woman who…"

— "Saved Marie and Kresten"

Recognition dawned on his features as he stared at the wound on her cheek. Surprise as well; he probably expected a different type of woman. Older maybe, or sturdier in constitution. Frances was, after all, just over a hundred pounds and only 5.4 feet tall. But the trail of fire, wound tight in a braid, was what sold her in the end.

— "Yes."

The young woman stood her ground, unmoving.

— "Want to help get my brother back?"

— "I was going to get you"

The man nodded.

— "Let's go"

Damn, he was as talkative as his brother. The young woman nodded, and ran to her mare, joining the tall soldier on the road in a cloud of dirt. Time passed too slowly as their horses galloped, and Frances' heart kept clenching painfully at the idea of what Jon might be enduring at the hands of those ruthless brutes. Sickly bastards, taking advantage of a lone man when he could take them in a duel. Relishing in the strength in numbers, those animals, instead of fighting with honour ! She would shove her dagger down their throat soon enough.

As soon as they came into view of the abandoned town, they both slowed their mounts to stifle the noise of pounding hooves. In those open plains, any scrap could be heard from miles around. Fortunately, the wind blew in their faces, which meant they had an advantage. A meager one, but beggars couldn't be choosers. It had started raining barely half minutes ago, and she thanked the heavens for it. The fat drops caused the temperature to abate, sending freshness upon her dirt coated skin. The smell of burnt wood lingered, even if the town had been reduced to cinders many months ago. A long agony. The only standing structure was the bank, turned into a lair. Frances left Haren behind, untied. The mare was intelligent enough to understand her instructions and not come any closer, and she would be able to whistle for her.

The soldier watched, but said nothing. She didn't even know his name, only that his eyes were blue, and the mane of blond hair reminded her of… Tristan ? Weird. Who was Tristan ? She had no idea, but he kept popping in her mind ever since she had met Jon's gaze.

Shaking herself, Frances gestured for the soldier that she would follow, Winchester in hand. They both plunged into the shadows of burnt buildings and crumbling wood, two ninjas thirsting for revenge. The ground was quickly turning into mud, too many layers of dirt mixing into a treacherous pool. None of them cared. Only one mission in mind; freeing the silhouette tied up to the pole, in the center of the square. For he was there, hands hoisted up, slumped between his outstretched arm in a position that must be extremely painful… if he lived still. The great Dane defeated. Nor the solider, nor Frances exchanged a word as they progressed. But both their hearts hammered in fear. Was Jon even alive ? Two hunchmen died in less than five minutes, one by his hand, another by hers. Silently, daggers slicing their throats neatly, a hand kept on their mouths as blood gurgled from their carotid. And for once, Frances's mind wasn't focused on the steady flow that soaked the ground, her vengeance bestowed on this wretched soul that had chosen the wrong side of her line. No. Instead, her heart was beating for the man that hung, limp, in the middle of this dirty square. Frantically trying to push out of her chest so that she could reach him faster. A firm hand over her shoulder restrained her from darting in the open, and the young woman bristled. She was no solider, her strategy usually consisted of barging in and laying waste on unsuspecting men. But today was different.

Darkness only intensified as the rain poured down, creating a background noise that would cover for their steps. The perfect conditions for an escape. Drenched, they scurried to the center of the square, mindful to prevent rocks from screeching below their boots. As soon as they reached Jon, the young woman reached for his throat, looking for a pulse. Dread returned, crippling, as seconds passed and she could feel no movement. Releasing a shuddering breath, Frances slightly shifted her fingers to apply more pressure on his dripping skin, the assaults of the rains ignored. She nearly leapt with joy when she found it, her eyes prickling with moisture. Fortunately, her emotion got drowned within the droplets that clung to her eyelashes.

— "He's alive", she mouthed to his brother.

And the man brightened, relief washing over his features as he climbed on his toes to cut the cords. Frances traced her finger over Jon's cheek, calling his name softly until he shifted. The strain was great, but eventually his eyes opened. It was just a flickering moment, the slightest of seconds, but she saw recognition in his eyes before he closed them anew. In the night, they were nearly grey… so deep, so profound that she had gotten lost in them. Then his body suddenly slumped upon hers, the restrains giving way under his brother's dagger. Frances staggered backwards, burdened by a weight much greater than hers. Damn, the man was heavy ! Draped over her whole frame, she bit her tongue to prevent from swearing as she struggled to keep straight. The full extend of his upper chest now wrapped around hers. And despite her dislike for men, the contact took her breath away, her whole frame humming from his involuntary touch. Instead of shoving him aside as she was wont to do whenever someone touched her, her treacherous body leant into him. It triggered recognition of a past long gone, of days when she had supported him the same way, of moments he would come home, exhausted, and crash onto her. Of battlefields from the past, and searing embraces in the wilds. Despite his crushing weight, despite the weakness of her knees threatening to give way, Frances couldn't let go of him.

Then Jon's brother took him from her and he was gone. The loss of his warmth left her bereft and confused, and she could only watch as the tall man lifted his brother upon his shoulder and walked away as if he was taking a stroll in the park. Frances gaped, retreating silently behind them, her Winchester facing out. What kind of species were those people, carrying a hundred and too many pounds on their backs and still walking straight ? Great Danes.

Their retreat didn't go as well as intended, for about halfway through the burnt porches, they were spotted. Cries arose under the pouring rain and doors banged. Stealth was thrown to the wind, chaos replacing it. Frances had no qualms about covering their retreat; her Winchester sang merrily, and her aim was true. Out of four shots, three hunchmen dropped dead, one was still crying out when she whistled for Haren. The mare came running, unfazed by the gunshots, and the solider dropped his brother on her saddle. She didn't have time to recoil from the giant's touch as he grabbed her waist and hoisted her up brutally behind his brother.

— "Go!", he shouted.

Then he drew his own rifle and returned fire. Frances shuddered as she urged her mare forward, trying hard not to turn around. It wouldn't do to save one brother only for the other one to be killed. She wouldn't be able to get the eldest one out of there on her own – he was even taller - and Jon was not in fighting condition. The gunshots intensified, and she crouched low on the saddle, her body protecting Jon's who was barely conscious enough to hold onto Haren's mane. His height really made it difficult to ride at full speed. Damn, she wasn't used to Nordic people; her own father had been a lighter man.

— "Hold fast", she urged.

But Jon was too weak to comply. What had they done to him ? Frances' hand circled his waist to lend him a little strength. Would it be enough to prevent him from falling at this breakneck speed ? Possibly not. But they needed to put some distance between them and the clan's lair, else they might very well feed the vulture before evening came. A pounding sound of hooves greeted her hears, and Frances chanced a glance backwards. Jon's brother was catching up fast, and she would have sighed in relief had her body not been coiled to prevent Jon from falling. He was so damn heavy that her arm was numb now. Her hips swayed with Haren's mad dash, the mare straining to sustain her weight and the additional man upon her back. She would owe her a ton of apples !

Soon the rain abated, and clouds cleared. This newfound light didn't bode well for them as they darted in the night, the clan Delarue at their backs. Frances changed position, sliding her left arm under Jon's chest, hoping to prolong the moment until… until her muscles failed. Seeing her predicament – a good soldier always was observant – her blond companion yelled at her to stop.

— "Let's get up there, Jon needs to rest"

— "Sure", she grumbled, refraining from yelling 'and my arms fucking do to !'

Perhaps he was only being considerate. Or whatever. They angled the horses' course to loose themselves in the rocky outcrops that might be considered hills, until their mounts could progress no further and the man lifted his brother from her saddle. By then, Frances' forearms were so cramped that she wondered if she would use them again.

— "Go and hide on the other siden, Haren", she told her mare. "I'll find you when we have discarded this lot"

Frances gave her mount one last caress before she let her go, producing a soothing sound to tell her not to make a noise.

— "Go ! And hush"

Haren didn't whinny as she walked away. Flexing her fingers in the night, Frances shouldered her Winchester and started after the couple of Great Danes. The slight moonlight gave them enough light to progress, and she trod carefully on the rocky ground, watching out for snakes and other disagreeable creatures. Those sneaky animals could mean death just as much as a bullet to the head, and could sleaze their way just fine in the night. Just ahead, the soldier unloaded Jon on the ground, telling him he would be back before he walked away.

Frances jumped in his path immediately.

— "Where are you going ?", she asked urgently.

The man didn't even stop to respond and she had to grab his long coat. When he whirled around, a feral glint in his eyes, the young woman recoiled. Her hand flew to grab her dagger and she barely refrained from pulling it; it was stupid, for they both worked together but she couldn't help having the jitters in front on angry man. Unless she planned to kill him, then the fear abated, washed away by bloodlust and anger. But this tall Dane meant business and her whole body reacted to his spiking aggressivity.

— "I'll distract them while he recovers", he sternly told her, as if she was five-year-old.

The young woman scoffed.

— "One against the clan ? This is your death warrant. I'm not staying to tell Jon I threw his brother to the wolves"

His eyes narrowed, and in the night their color seemed nearly translucent; they couldn't be more different that the warm golden of Jon's eyes.

— "Any suggestion ?"

His sharp tone told her told the discussion wouldn't last long; she had to make her point fast.

— "We take them here, in the hills. Two snipers, opposite directions. We can shoot at least half of them if we post on upper ground."

The soldier's head turned left and right; he could see over her shoulder, spotting places that might work. His jaw tightened then, hesitation flooding his icy gaze for a second.

— "Are you so eager to die ?", he eventually asked, Winchester flying in his hands.

It was then that Frances understood his motives for going alone; he was protecting her, and his brother. Willing to sacrifice himself to save them both. She flashed him a feral smile; he needed to see the predator in her, eager for a rightful hunt.

— "Don't worry about me. I'll take right, you go left"

And she hopped away, feet silent on the rocky ground, to prevent him from protesting any further. Men ! If they were not mad with lust, they couldn't help but paternalise a younger woman. Underestimation of her skills had done wonders in the past, and the Delarue clan had no inkling there would be two of them; let alone that they would face an ambush. Those stupid oafs were so used to strength in numbers and their superior fire power that they couldn't possibly expect to be attacked in the dead of the night. Frances smiled ; this was going to be a bloodbath of the most satisfying sort.


	3. Chapter 3 - Bloodbath

**_Hey Koba! Once more, you have nailed all the infos right _****_ The sweet game of reincarnation, a little downtuned here, would give them a few memories and feelings but nothing more. Yes, no Keeper of Time in this instance. Only plain old Frances roaming the wilds in search of revenge._**

**_If you want to watch this movie, I found it online for free on youtube … in Danish! The role of Peter is played by a Swedish actor (_****_Mikael Persbrandt) _****_who is great in his role_**.

Peter watched the young woman disappear from his sight. Climbing in the shadows, like a wildcat on a hunt, she probably didn't disturb the slightest puff of dirt as she prowled. He lost her in less than a minute, and set on his course to find the best spot to start this shooting game. He had seen the hurt the Delarue clan brought to people, witnessed firsthand the unfair death their members dealt without a care in the world. And even if both brothers had a habit to keep a low profile, today was the day of retribution for what they had done to his baby brother. He, and that disturbing woman, would rid the land of this scum or die trying. Probably die … there were at least seven of them, maybe more. But Jon's life depended on it. Now, it was a personal matter.

He just wondered where the redhead fit in there. She was not as young as he thought her to be in the first place, and twice as smart. And she pronounced Jon's name correctly, which no American seemed too keen on doing. A detail that only gave him an inkling of her education. Obviously, she knew what she was doing. And the simmering glint in her eyes told her that she wouldn't back down either.

Let the feast begin then.

Less than a half hour later, Peter had to admit that the woman was brutally efficient. Out of the two of them, they had nearly wiped out the Delarue clan. A few men had fled through the hills, most of the others' blood already soaked the mud. He had caught a glimpse of the wildcat woman as she hunted the remaining ones, taking advantage of the veiled moonlight; he had no doubt she would drive them out one by one. Already, her Winchester had sung twice. Either she was dead, either they were. He could only hope her heart beat still – Jon would need her protection – for he would be dead within minutes.

Clear as day, plain like an old whore; Peter knew he was about to meet his end for his gun was pointed to Delarue himself – the man had brains, but no courage. The clan leader had left his men to die under their heavy fire, escaping through the boulders at the very beginning of their ambush. By his side, another henchman has taken aim to his head as well. Do or die. Or both. Time froze, only interrupted by random shots echoing through the barren outcrop. If he pulled the trigger first, Delarue would die, and so would he. If he so much as heard the other breathe a little louder, he would not hesitate. As for the head of the clan … well, he didn't look so proud now.

Unshaven face, rounded features tanned by the sun and a physique suited for old nobles in the European Renaissance, Delarue seemed to ponder his options. And like the snake he was, he started talking, trying to convince him that there was a way out of this … alive.

— "I know your brother is there, somewhere. And when my men find him…"

— "I doubt you have many men left, Delarue"

His words, stated nonchalantly, were nothing but the truth. The rounded man's face seemed to turn purple, but it was difficult to discern it in the moonlight. He couldn't let his rambles distract him; this was his enemy's goal. To distract him long enough for his goon to take him down without the Danish soldier putting a nice lovely hole into his skull. Keeping the anger at bay, chasing the image of his bloodied brother from his mind, Peter kept the man talking without responding, only feeding him with the occasional grunt. He didn't even listen to his words; he expected no truth from Delarue. No. The soldier waited. For what? He was unsure himself. But everything in the air told him to still, to keep calm. It was his only chance.

After a while, Delarue started to bristle. None of his men had appeared yet. Peter only smirked; that fiery woman sure was a bane to a criminal's existence. What did that make her? A vigilante or a bloodthirsty thief? Who cared, as long as she protected his family. When they set foot in the far west, Jon and Peter had learnt to shed their sense of justice to take care of their own. Here, there was no right or wrong. Only life and death. And if he died today, he knew he would have protected his brother to the end. It just needed it to be worth it, he needed Jon to make it. And this woman was his best shot.

A bird of prey send a piercing cry then. A hawk?

A black shape suddenly emerged from the rocks, like a panther bounding upon its prey. Delarue's henchman didn't see it coming; he was tackled to the ground with a yelp. Peter didn't hesitate twice. His fingers pulled the trigger, digging a mighty hole into Delarue's head. The thug fell with a thud into the dirt, face first. Peter then redirected his weapon to the stack of limbs that wrestled on the ground. The glint of a dagger reflected the moonlight as a roar echoed in the night, then the only sound was the gurgles of a man drowning in his own blood. The creature lifted her head then and Peter took in his form – unhurt – before she stood up. Frances! Her clothes were bathed in blood, and he wondered how many she had finished silently instead of drawing her Winchester.

— "How many did you kill?" she asked, her jaw set.

— "Four, with Delarue"

Relief washed through her features, and in the blink of an eye, she was a young woman again.

— "Then they are all dead. That one was the fifth."

Shock hit him as he realised they had taken out the Delarue clan. Six men at the compound, and nine here. Fifteen men. The sheriff would probably have no issues arresting the few remaining associates if some remained. Peter didn't give a damn. Tomorrow, they would be gone from this goddamn place and leave it all behind.

He held his hand to the young woman then, and she eyed him warily. Like an animal about to be attacked. He wondered if she was in full possession of her wits when her killing spree took over. Maybe not. Realising she wasn't about to shake it, he retracted his hand and turned around, the young woman matching his steps.

— "I'm Peter," he said.

— "Frances, as you already know."

The solider wondered if he should comment on her skills, but decided to attack another angle instead. Her peculiar accent got him curious.

— "Where are you from?"

For a moment, he dreaded the answer. His latest war with the Germans had left scars; he didn't want to hate her on sight.

— "France"

A country he did not know much about. This, he could deal with; it didn't make the woman more approachable though.

— "Ah, I was afraid you were German."

She actually made a face at him, like a child's grimace that would have made him laugh had the night not been so … bloody. And his brother in such a mess.

— "Ew. Please, do I look like a German woman?"

Peter took a moment to study her face. Slender jaw, high cheekbones, plump lips and almond shaped eyes. Her long fiery braid danced upon her lower back like a lifeline. Relief made him more talkative than usual, and he couldn't help but respond honestly.

— "Honestly, you look like something else altogether. Irish, maybe"

— "Yare yare. So, is it a solider thing, this loyalty to each other?"

Her question baffled him. Peter had never considered the limits of his devotion to Jon. He would do anything for him, die if need be. And his brother deserved to live more than him; he had a family to care for, just simple common sense in his mind. The answer, though, was very simple.

— "Jon is my baby brother."

The complexity of one's relationship in a nutshell. Her scoff brought a smile to his lips.

— "A tad old for a baby"

— "He's barely thirty-five. And he will always be my baby brother."

Nine years older than she was. Frances nodded, her mind walking down memory lane to the way her grandma always called his father a 'kid', even when he stacked forty years old. She remembered calling her upon it, one warm evening as she cooked the hare her father has hunted for them. It sent warmth and hurt through her heart, the memory as vivid at the face of his dead father not a year later. Thank God her grandma had passed away already. The painful pang shortened her breath, and Frances shoved the memory away, closing the door upon it. So much death, so much pain, only for the amusement of a few men whose blood still sipped through her fingers.

But as she took in the man that walked ahead of her, his eyes darting about to check for potential danger, she started to wonder… Perhaps some men were worth it after all. … perhaps all men were not a mess of lust and brute strength.

Jon had not moved an inch during the firefight; he was out cold and it both unsettled them. His lips were so dry, cracked by the day he had spent in the sunlight without a drink.

— "I'll get my waterskin from Haren," she said. "And medical supplies"

Peter nodded, keeping watch beside his brother for a while. Jon was slouched on the ground where he had left him, and he rearranged his body so that his head rested in his lap. It was a relief Frances had medical supplies, for he had next to nothing with him. The Sheriff had fished him out rather violently from the saloon the day before; he still felt the punch he had dealt him before they threw him on the jail's ground. At last, the woman reappeared, and he watched her graceful steps through the moonlit landscape. A predator, this is what she was. A shiver ran down his spine. She oozed dangerous, with such an innocent face. She had education and poise, compassion and sharp wit. What could have brought a woman like her to desperation?

— "We can collect weapons and horses. If you sell them elsewhere, it will give you a good start."

Peter seemed to consider the question – with $50 to $100 per horse minimum … that could cover thrice the cost of their lost land – before he folded his coat below his brother's head and took off.

— "Careful out there," she warned. "I've seen a rattlesnake, but it didn't get time spot me."

Peter almost snorted. He had heard more 'I heard one but didn't see it', not the other way around. But truthfully, she moved like a ghost; he wasn't surprised the snake didn't spot her. Her awareness probably was the reason she was still alive. He almost demanded that she cared for Jon, in the meantime … before realising his order might end up causing a fist fight, so he just grunted. As he left, Peter watched the fiery woman reach for Jon's face, dropping a little water on a cloth to wipe his brow. There was such tenderness in her gesture that he wondered how long they had known each other. Bah. Who cared, as long as she kept him alive.

Frances listened to Peter's retreating footsteps, her hand still cupping Jon's cheek as she took in the poor state of his face. Here, away from the city and any suitable well, they would have to ration the water supply. Which meant she couldn't wash his face thoroughly, and would have to drown her own cut in alcohol. Ugh! Fortunately, the slice she had sustained in the coach fight was already closing by itself; she never had trouble healing. Jon was absolutely unconscious; a quick check to his foot indicated that it was probably sprained. The swell was at its worse, and it would hurt, but nothing life threatening. The only wounds left were his temple and nose … and the one at his back. Would she dare using alcohol? It wasn't much of a choice, really, so she dabbed her cloth in alcohol, and diluted it with a little water to clean his face.

Midway through her ministrations, Jon jolted awake with a moan of pain. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry,' she kept saying as she grabbed his hand. Jon crushed it without realising he was grinding her fingers to dust until the pain relented. Then his eyes focused a little, and he found her deep chocolate eyes watching him warily. The faint light of the moon emphasised the curve of her cheeks, the slender line of her jaw where her neck plunged into her open chemise. And despite his parched throat and the fire still running through his numerous wounds, he couldn't help but find her beautiful. Her hands tried to keep him upright and he winced, eliciting a look of concern on her fair features. His body was battered and bruised, the muscles of his shoulder stretched so badly that they felt on fire. Damn those ropes! She lent him her strength, and for such a slender woman, her grip was surprisingly steady. His upper chest, now, rested upright against her shoulder. She circled his back with both of her arms, embracing him in her warmth, and Jon swore he had never felt safer than in this moment.

The young woman held a water skin to his lips, preventing him from snatching it altogether.

— "Careful," she said. "Just a little at once"

Jon would have drowned in the water had she not prevented him from drinking it all in one go. Never before had water felt so good! Every minute or so, she gave him another mouthful, keeping the skin in custody. At last, he was able to speak. He did not recall much of their escape, but the sound of his brother's voice haunted him. Had something happened to him?

— "Peter?" he asked.

— "Wandering downhill to get the horses. He's alright"

Then his mind cleared a little, and his heart hammered a little faster at the reason that had brought him against the Delarue clan in the first place. His hand grabbed hers with insistence as he asked breathlessly.

— "Marie?"

— "Safe with Kresten. They stay with a family I trust for the moment. I'll bring you back to them."

— "Thank you," he breathed out, squeezing her fingers tightly. "Thank you, thank you."

For a while, none of them moved in the night, basking in their respective presence, and the very simple fact of being alive. Then Jon closed his eyes, and Frances set him down on the ground, covering him, for the second time in three days, with her blanket. He was wounded and shocked; he needed strength.

And like they had camped in the middle of nowhere with his wife and son two days prior, Frances and his brother kept watch through the night to allow Jon to recover.


	4. Chapter 4 - Safe at last

**_So if you paid attention to the timeline, you will see that this is the reverse situation than King Arthur where Frances is the one on the road for fifteen years (10 when she meets Jon, 5 more before the end of that story). She is the one with anger management and kills for her own justice._**

**_To Koba: Anyway, from your comment I guess I failed at keeping this realistic, uh ? _****_ So despite that fact, I wanted to explain a bit my reasoning. _**

**_The fact that Frances and Peter can take the clan into a crossfire makes the difference, especially since they ambush at night on people used to have the upper hand. Frances had 10 years to let her anger fester, and hone her skills. She's like a ninja ambushing samurai, it is an unfair fight because she is silent, and they don't expect her; they've never seen her. The same fight in plain sight, she'd be dead in a heartbeat. But it works so no complaining._**

**_Funny fact, Jon is the only one she didn't save, his brother would have taken care of him anyway (in the original movie). Except that with her presence the whole scenario is upside down _****_ In the original version, it is all a matter of circumstances as, in the end, Jon wipes out the clan singlehandedly (almost). I'm trying to reproduce that. The town's salvation, somehow, is a side effect… _**

**_As for Frances being a sheriff… she is absolutely unsuitable for the role. She has anger issues, and doesn't comply with the law at all. Imagine if she had to enforce it. She could become quite the tyrant with too much power… Eeeek !_**

**_Anyway, I hope that despite it all, it still is enjoyable._**

Night was falling over the quiet landscape of dirt and rocks. After their little detour through town – to inform the Sheriff about the Delarue Clan and to get the money back from the dishonest mayor who Frances had scared to death – the trio rode without pause.

Jon still sported his beard, but his face was clean, his ankle bandaged, and the slow rhythm didn't jolt his aching muscles so much. All in all, he wasn't in bad shape. A far cry from the tortured body that might have remained behind had Peter and Frances not come to his rescue. He'd been so naïve, to trust this town not to betray him as he sold his land to the mayor. A soldier with morals, once more blinded by his loyalty. He would never make that mistake again. Often, his gaze wandered to the young lady by his side, to the fire that danced in her hair as the sun dipped on the horizon. He owed her his son and wife's life, as well as his brother's… and his own. In three days, she had saved his whole family where he might have lost everything. His gratitude was acquired for the remainder of his days… His affections… he didn't know where he stood right now, for her presence tugged at his heart curiously.

Jon couldn't help but wonder about the strange vision that has assaulted him as he trod through the path of consciousness, tied to his pole. It didn't matter much; she would be on her way in barely a day. His eyes wandered to Peter's stiff gait in the saddle; his older brother was wary of her. He wondered why, and would know soon enough. For the moment, though, a pair of extra hands was needed as they travelled with five riderless horses. Three had fled, another one not survived to its wounds caused by a rearing in the rocks. Albeit Peter had filled him in about the wild chase he and Frances had led on the rocky outcrop, Jon still had trouble wrapping his mind about the fact that the Delarue clan was barely a memory. Had anything happened to Marie or Kresten, Jon knew for sure that he would have wiped them out himself. Out of the two brothers, he was the best shot, and the most ruthless. Surprising, given he was the youngest … but the soul didn't care much about family rank. Jon had always been a natural fighter.

So it felt strange, for once, to be rescued; the helpless damsel in distress. Bah. He had had his share of fighting during the war, and was not eager to commit a massacre. Killing wasn't a past time that he adhered to, quite the contrary. He was just good and efficient at it, and glad he didn't have to go berserk on the clan with anger and despair for sole companions. Instead, he was trekking back to his family with his brother in tow. And her…

They stopped for the night next to an outcrop. One less direction to look out for, and it hid the flames rather well from the 'main road'. Funny, how this country was helplessly empty. In the east, though, civilization was way more advanced. Here… Everything needed to be built, even the wildlife was scarce and wary. No wonder, with this stifling heat and hostile vegetation. Such a far cry from the greenery of his youth. But the war had changed it all; seeing bodies litter the rolling hills of southern Denmark could do that to a man. Both his brother and himself had longed for a place so different that those memories could remain buried. He never wanted to see the great trees of the north. His life, now, was dust and rocks burnt by sunshine, heat and cold mixed within the span of a day. Dryness that could reduce your bones to dust, and ghastly beasts that would take your fingers of with a bite.

Food was scarce, and of meager quality that evening, but it didn't matter now. Tomorrow, Jon would reunite with his family, strong from the 150 $ from the sale of his land, and probably five hundred from selling the weapons and horses. Unless they kept them to raise the beasts. He always loved animals, for as far as he could remember. Jon was the silent type, those who didn't need words to understand; it made him strangely attuned to animal life. He could see himself holding a ranch. There, that was an idea. A new beginning for his family.

As Peter fished out the alcohol to partake in a drink, the young woman by his side refused the first round. The second just as well; she didn't seem fond of alcohol. But then came the time to clean his head wounds, and Jon knew it would hurt like bitch, so he took another mouthful, just to buzz his senses a little. With this heat, they couldn't afford to leave the cuts on his face and upper back untended. Infection would set in too quickly. Frances fished out a clean cloth, as she had done this very morning, her eyebrows quirking to ask for permission. She, either, wasn't one for words. Out of the three of them, they made quite the silent trio. As the young woman approached with her white cloth, Jon wondered about the mute woman he had met at Delarue; he hoped that she was free now, and not as malevolent as her former husband.

The stab of pain wasn't unexpected, but he still flinched away rather violently. Lost in his thoughts, he had not even realized the fiery woman had knelt before him.

— "I'm sorry", she said quietly, her eyes filled with worry. "It probably hurts like bitch"

Jon grit his teeth, nodding silently as she cleaned his head wound, gently dabbed the top of his nose, then asked him to turn around to treat his back wound. It wasn't too deep, just grazed, but she wasn't leaving anything to chance. He wondered if that woman had a husband, somewhere, for her care felt as genuine as it was thorough. Or maybe she was just used to being hurt. Once the sting became manageable, Jon eventually told her.

— "Don't be. Won't be the first, nor the last time"

Frances rolled the cloth once he settled back, sending him a very serious look before she stood up.

— "You don't die on my watch, sir"

Jon's eyes followed her as she walked to her mare, stowing the cloth for later use. Her next words were so low that he doubted he had heard them in the first place. 'Not again', she softly added, cuddling Haren with genuine affection. His vision washed back like a tidal wave, he dying on the battlefield, she laying a few feet from him. Is that what she meant ? Not again ? Was it the reason she had saved him, cared for him and his family ? Did she know what those visions were about ? Or was he, altogether, just going crazy ?

His eyes bore holes into her when she settled back beside the fire., and she held his gaze without fear not restraint. Until he passed her the bottle. The young woman took a swig, grimacing at the sour aftertaste of this bad whiskey. They conversed a little, about the war, mostly, and the territory reasons that had pushed two countries to massacre their own. She spoke of France, of the sun setting upon the Alps when the weather was clear, of ancient nobility that wanted too much, and disowned her father for marrying the wrong woman. Family, she said, could be as supportive as it could be destructive. And he knew she meant Peter, and the risks he had taken to help him out.

Her cheeks turned pink very soon, her words pronounced with more accent as she took her third swig at the bottle – she couldn't hold her liquor, that impossible woman ! It should have amused him, except for the immense sadness that seemed to emerge as she got intoxicated. Walls crumbled, her shoulders sagged, her eyes turning distant as she turned down the next pass of the bottle.

— "Thank you gentlemen, but I do not have your hearty constitution"

Peter shrugged, getting the bottle back; he was not even buzzed. His blue gaze, thought, was also fixed on the young woman. Too many secrets to entrust his little brother to her care, this is what his eyes conveyed when their met his. Jon remembered their conversation two days prior, and decided that it was as good a time as any.

— "Will you tell us now ?", he asked gently.

Frances' head snapped up, and suddenly, the walls were back. She didn't have to ask him what he meant; she knew already. Obviously, she wasn't drunk enough to impair her wits. Not that he would expect such a woman to relinquish control. He strongly suspected that Frances knew her limits, and never stepped a toe out of line. Right now, he knew she could kill and shoot if needed. Never caught off guard… Bluntness was the only option.

— "Tell me why you helped me", he coaxed.

She seemed to hesitate, and for a moment, they were locked in a staring contest over the small flames of their campfire. Peter, rooted to his seat, did not move an inch for fear of disturbing their silent conversation. Jon didn't back down, his gaze intense, but gentle. Demanding, yet understanding. Opened for her to see. And she probably found what she needed in his earnest plea, for she started recounting.

— "I was sneaking out with my boyfriend, something innocent, just kissing. Three young men, clearly intoxicated, came about. They wanted a piece of me, I didn't. My boyfriend died first; he wasn't a fighter"

A piece clicked into place in Jon's mind, and he dared sharing a glance with Peter whose attention was enraptured. Frances' eyes were far, far away, she wasn't even acknowledging their presence anymore.

— "My father was next, he didn't see it coming. Thank God he was … out before he saw what they did to me"

A shudder ran though her spine then; her body remember the searing pain that followed as they raped her. The sensation of being cleaved in half, of the trickle of blood running through her legs… then…

— "They stabbed me… in the stomach. They were so drunk they did a poor job at it"

She had lain as her blood pooled, awaiting death to claim her. But it didn't. And when she realized that she could still walk, she dragged herself into the house and found two of them passed out. She plunged the knife into their heart, watching the light flicker out of their eyes. Days passed, a fever claimed her, then left. All this time, their bodies rotted into her house. When she could walk again, Frances took a few belongings, her father's Winchester, and burnt her home to the ground.

— "I survived. Killed two of them with their own knife, then I left with Haren."

Her eyes weren't even wet, her voice deadened. As if this tale wasn't hers. Peter sent him a horrified look, visibly reconsidering his opinion.

— "How old ?", he asked, his voice coarse.

— "Sixteen"

Jon exhaled slowly, his heart hammering in his chest. This… this brutal raping, this is what she had prevented for Marie. Jon understood now, and wanted nothing more but to reach for her hand. She recoiled from his touch with anger, bouncing on her feet like a coil.

— "I don't want your pity", she spat.

Surprisingly, it was Peter who stood up, his face pale, fist clenched.

— "Oh, there's no pity there, believe me."

He strode away to get rid of the liquor he had imbibed all evening. Stunned, Frances only watched him with a puzzled frown.

— "He is angry", Jon explained. "On your behalf"

Frances' eyebrows rose, her expression less guarded than usual. This man's voice was oddly soothing, and this difficult moment was no exception. Rightful wrath, however, was not quite what she expected.

— "Well that is new", she told him with a timid smile that caused his insides to squirm. "You really are a pair of knights, you two"

The title struck him speechless, and for a while, it permeated his very being from head to toe. A knight. Yes. This was the code he went by, every day of his life. When they turned in this very night around the dying embers, Jon dreamt of the knights of the round table, mounted on a gray mare, a recurve bow in hand, and fiery lady by his side.

The fuss of their arrival in Wood Creek didn't go unnoticed, for a caravan of horses and weapons seconded by two great Danes was a sight to behold. For once, though, Frances wasn't the one that stood out. She had done much for the families in this little town, saving maidens and hunting criminals as a bounty hunter that kids swarmed her instantly. Here better than anywhere in the west, her presence was always welcome. The young woman smiled; her popularity would ensure a genuine interest for Jon's family as they settled. And the soldiers' loyalty and fierceness could only protect the town in return. Should they accept to stay, the deal would go both way.

It didn't take long for Marie to run to her husband, relief flooding her beautiful face. Disbelief as well, for worry had gnawed at her every single second he had been away. Needless to say that she would have trouble getting used to this country. At least, the family she had stayed with seemed to retain a certain level of civility. They had even been able to converse a little with german words. Her gratitude to the young woman only increased when Jon and Peter told her the story in full. Lives and money she had offered to them; something her hosts had warned her about. 'He will be fine', Maggie – the mother – had managed to convey to her as she ate her nails raw.

They all gathered at the Cheston household for the evening, and Frances offered to get to town to find a nice piece of roast. With Jon, Peter and herself, they couldn't possibly impose on the family that had graciously hosted Marie and Kresten. The elder Dane chose to accompany her, taking advantage of her bargaining to evaluate whether they could settle in the outskirts of this town. His questioning probably went well, for he was in a better mood when they came back with a goat hoisted upon Haren's back. Although they both conversed, Frances could still feel his unease towards her. Wariness and anger lingered, mingling into something that prevented them from bonding properly. It didn't matter. She would take off the very next day, and leave them to their own devices.

Dinner ressembled a feast rather than a quiet, proper meal at home. The men built a fire, roasting the goat on a spike in the outside. Children played merrily, asking Frances to recount tales upon tales of her bounty hunts for criminals. The young woman obliged, exaggerating to make them laugh, trying to hide the gruesome details of being a cold-hearted killer. Jon's gaze rested upon hers as she recounter the Dane's adventure, and both he and Peter sometimes interjected comments into her story.

— "I am not surprised", Maggie Cherton eventually said as she settled. "Frances always had that habit of saving people that mattered"

And the young woman dipped her head, wondering if Jon had caught on Maggie' unintentional meaning. For the man was happy, sitting beside his wife, his hand sometimes lingering to touch hers. A very proper gesture, even more restrained than those nobles in the "Pride and Prejudice" novel. But his eyes shone with happiness, and it touched her heart, ripping it in two opposite directions. Half of her was ecstatic; she had managed to save this family from ruin, and their happiness radiated in warm waves towards her. Somewhere in the course of her life, she had preserved a little bubble of joy. And seeing this man, peacefully sitting beside his wife, an eye checking on his son's antics in the backyard, brought her so much joy that her chest sometimes heaved.

On the other hand, it only fueled her own solitude. Here, among people that she almost considered family, she was but a figure that passed by. And she refused to linger, for she was not quite capable of doing anything than hunting criminals. She wouldn't know how to tend for a house, how to be a mother, how to endure this quiet life with children asking for her attention, and adults regarding her like a daughter. No, Frances needed to be free. Free to roam the land with Haren. Free to remember than man, Jon, as a husband and father. Despite her numerous visions, he wasn't Tristan. He might have been the warrior she'd seen; but not anymore. Now, he was a shy, loyal husband and fierce solider of Danish descent. With an older brother than found her frightening. Great. Dipping into her mug, Frances only smiled. Her relationship with Peter was an excellent resumé of her effect on men in general. Not that she wanted it to change. As long as they feared her, or thought her crazy, she was safe from their ways and depravity.

Dawn wasn't passed by much when Frances saddled her horse. She had promised to come back… someday. Something in Jon's chest had churned. He found her in the stables, his mood much improved. He had spent the night beside his wife and son, his wounds were healing nicely, and the future seemed less bleak than a few days past. His ankle still hurt; it would for a while, but didn't prevent him from riding. His son seemed happy enough, and Marie… well, she would need time to adjust. But the town Frances had led them to were more than happy to welcome them. With the additional weapons and horses, their life would be greatly improved.

Jon watched as the woman offered an apple to Haren. The mare whinnied in thanks, causing her to smile. A full, genuine smile that seemed only addressed to her mare. Her only friend, the most faithful one. Until now. Now she would only have to call, and both he and Peter would answer. What she had given them had no price; they would repay her with their loyalty.

— "You're spoiling her", he said as a greeting.

Jon had always been silent but was surprised when Frances didn't jump; she had heard his approach.

— "Can't possibly spoil an animal with apples, uh ?", she said, caressing the mare's neck.

Jon lifted an eyebrow, a smile quirking his lips. As if sensing his mood, Frances turned to him, her own eyebrow climbing her forehead in a mischievous expression. She was beautiful, that woman. So different from Marie, fierce, untamable, and absolutely gorgeous in an exotic way.

— "If they are a good treat for a man, then they are good for Haren"

Something popped in his mind, the sight of his hands methodically peeling apples with a knife. And a fiery woman, keeping entire buckets of his favorite fruit for him. It baffled him, those memories that weren't from this life. As he stood, rooted to the spot, Haren eventually nudged his shoulder. For a moment, the young redhead seemed taken aback by her mare's behavior.

— "She likes you"

Jon lifted his hand to pat her neck, his amber eyes taking in the magnificent animal that was Haren.

— "Well, likewise. She is intelligent and caring, and saved my life."

The awe in his voice caused Frances' heart to swell with pride.

— "Yeah, she saved mine more often than I can count. She can be rather protective"

Jon's eyes turned to her, and she found herself pinned by his intense presence. With his height, he towered over her easily.

— "Well, someone has to"

And he meant it. For out there, she would have no other protection than her skills and her mount. Deep down, he wanted nothing more than to ask her to stay. They could make it work, as a whole family. But he knew she would refuse. Frances was too wild to be caged into such a life. He, on the other hand, would be happy with a dull existence as long as he could keep those closest to his heart safe and sound. Then why was he so upset ? So worried that she would go on her own ? Those memories were messing up with him again. Frances was a stranger who had just happened to save his life. Period. He owed her much, and could attempt to repay some of his debt on the spot.

— "Are you sure you don't want the money ? The offer still stands"

— "Nah. I got what I need with the extra munitions you gave me. I don't spend much other than bullets"

Jon nodded; he knew how stubborn she could be. There was no point in arguing. Still, it left a sour taste in his mouth to let her go without even a token of their gratitude – bullets aside. Frances watched the emotions flicker in his eyes, forgoing trying to read the expression on his blank face. A habit he was hard pressed to let go; the poker face had served him well over time. Strange, though, how she seemed to have no issues with it, as if they had known each other for years. Surprisingly, she was the one who reached out as her hand landed on his arm with a lopsided smile.

— "If you manage to create a ranch and breed horses, I'll get back to you when I need one. How is that ?"

— "I'll keep the very best for you", he said, dead serious.

Her grip tightened, and Jon's arm seemed more alive.

— "Somehow, I don't doubt it"

There was fondness in her tone, an underlying meaning that she trusted him. Then she stood on her toes, and before he could react, kissed his lips gently.

— "Goodbye, my Tristan", she breathed.

Paralysed, Jon could only watch as Frances mounted Haren and urged the horse away. Baffled, he observed her long reddish braid as it bounced on her back in rhythm with the mare's canter. Peter's voice, too close, nearly gave him a heart attack.

— "Phew, what a woman ! I wouldn't like to be the one handling her"

Jon raised his eyebrows. Who, indeed, could possibly be up to the task ? Had this warrior of old measured up to her ? Tristan, she had called him.

And as she left behind the Great Danes, Frances felt the strange need to sing 'I'm a poor lonesome cowboy'.


	5. Chapter 5 - Back to square one

**_To Koba: I knew someone would catch the Great Dane joke. Of course it had to be you ! I even went as far as checking that this race already existed in 1870… but I didn't realise it was Scoobdy Doo :p I am humbled by your 'stalking' as you put it. I've done it for other authors, and I have to admit that it sends a little puff to my chest._****_ Thank you. A lot._**

Five years passed. Five years during which Frances avoided the Great Danes' new village with more fervor than it deserved. Not as assiduously than Black Creek though, where this whole adventure began in the first place. She had heard, and seen with her own eyes an oil company take over the land, drawing honest people out of Black Creek like the last rays of light from dusk in the horizon. The Mayor rose in power, becoming richer while the Sheriff remained complacent. Beaten into shape, defeated or strangely fatalist ? There were whispers that the Delarue clan had secretly worked for the Mayor ; Jon had said, after all, that the Mayor had gone as far as steal his boots – containing the money from his land - while he was tied to his pole in Delarue' lair. Frances was quite ready to believe it … but her little stunt, helping Jon's family, ensured her that Black Creek should be avoided at all cost. If the mayor recognized her… God knew what could happen, especially since she was alone again.

Was it a coincidence that the devil's town was on the way to Jon's permanent residence ? Perhaps she was only using it as a pretext not to set foot in the happy village she had left five years ago after kissing a married man. She knew the Cheston family would give her hell – what would the children look like now ? – but she couldn't afford to see Jon again. Ever since she had left him behind to built a new life with his family, the man plagued her thoughts and walked her dreams. Tristan, he had been called once. A Sarmatian knight in the service of Rome for a commander named Artorius Castus. They were unmarried then, but a fierce couple, madly in love with each other. Their death on the battlefield had allowed them to leave this world together. Perhaps even as spirits, they had circled around each other before… before what ? Taking roots in this mad world again ? Frances wondered, sometimes, if she was loosing it. Unfortunately, her occupation didn't make her more sociable, and the solitude prevented her from speaking to anyone about those reminiscence. Even if Haren snorted, sometimes, whenever she spoke Jon's name aloud.

Then one day, the world came crashing down. Her mare died, leaving Frances prostrated with grief on the outskirts of yet another village. After days wandering around, aimless, she boarded a coach, then a train to San Fancisco in an attempt to change her mind. There was a newspaper that wanted to write articles about her self-appointed job as a bounty hunter. Walking around in a civilized city and watching the sun set on the sea, that should be worth the trip, right ? Deep down, Frances knew she should go to Jon, and ask for another horse yet. But what for ? To once more disappear into the wilds, miserable as sin, without anything else to do that hunt and kill criminals for money ? Or gratitude ? Ever since she had met the Great Dane, witnessed the twinkle of happiness that shone in his eyes when he watched his wife and son, Frances had longed for more. But she had found no man that could compare to him. None. Her heart would accept no other than Tristan's soul.

She found San Francisco stifling; women had even less rights than in the wild west. They were regarded as breedstock, figureheads, or both. Hanging around in heavy dresses all day long, speaking in society, being beautiful… ugh ! If this is what her father fled when he took his family to America, then she could only applaud his wise decision. Through his death, he had granted her freedom. Frances stayed for a month before a man asked her to be his wife. She knew he was taken with her good looks; the reason for his demand. Her duties, of course, would be to lay with him whenever he wanted it, be pretty, and shut her mouth in society.

— "What a striking figure, with your red hair and slender frame ! Albeit you will have to refrain your skin from tanning - get an umbrella - for such things only pertain to low ranking workwomen", he said.

Frances grit her teeth; she didn't kill him, not for lack of want. But when the man grabbed her arm without permission, she nearly blew his skull out. The next train to the east found her sitting impatiently in third class.

Crushing her doubts and fear, she fled to Wood Creek the evening after. The mood was merry, a festival in full bloom as she stepped into town. Almost as if the city celebrated her return. She had travelled on the coach's roof, all spaces taken because of the feast. Upon her arrival, Frances asked for a room in the saloon; they knew her by then. There, she washed her hair and braided it tight, French style, before deciding to adorn a skirt. A real one. After all, she had no horse to ride this evening and could afford to look nice. Several daggers still found their way into her clothes, and her colt sat at her hip with its munition belt. Watching herself in the mirror, Frances smiled. There. She was presentable, almost like a woman. The scar on her cheek had faded over the years, but never disappeared entirely. A reminder of her first encounter with Jon; marking her for life. Sighing, the young woman tried to brace herself for what was to come.

Frances walked into town, smiling at the merry music that permeated the air. Autumn was fading, its crushing heat now receding as winter came. Everyone was sighing in relief, dancing and talking as better times came ahead. Even after five years, many faces were still familiar. Some talked to her, some just eyed her, wondering if she was the same woman they had known. But one teenager, in particular, seemed to follow her with his girlfriend in tow. Until she turned around abruptly.

— "What do you want, kid ?", she asked.

A set of very clear eyes and familiar cheekbones greeted her, and for a moment, she though she recognized him. Unfazed by her outburst and angry posture – what a flegmatic character ! – a wide smile bloomed on the youth's features.

— "You are Frances, right ? The woman who saved us when we first came"

His accent was slightly off. First came from where ? And what was that familiar feeling when she watched his face.

— "Er"

— "I'm Kresten. I didn't speak English then"

Frances' eyes widened as the teenager grinned. Wow, what five years could do to a shy boy, it was incredible how the kid had grown. But again, both his mother and his father were tall so it wasn't so surprising. Not bothering to hide her surprise, she asked him flat out:

— "You were only ten. How did you recognize me ?"

— "The red hair, and the scar. Mom and dad used to speak of you often"

The mention of Jon and Marie sent her guts into twist. She wasn't ready… Marking a pause, Frances barely managed to utter the next sentence without stuttering.

— "Oh. How are they ?"

— "They… uh. Dad is doing better now."

Dread suddenly crept up her spine and Frances found her breath short. Her eyes darted left and right, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jon, fearing to see a limp, or any other wound. Failing at spotting him, she tried to rein her anguish.

— "Was he injured ? What happened ?"

The youth's blue eyes widened slightly when he realized how she had interpreted her words.

— "Mum died when Caren was born"

Frances' face fell as she took in the news. At least, the baby survived, but the sadness in Kresten's eyes was barely concealed; he missed his mother. Without thinking, the young woman reached for his forearm and squeezed.

— "How long … ?"

— "Nearly two years ago"

Three years ! Her risky sauvetage had only bought them three years of happiness before the ground swallowed their family. She felt like crying at the unfairness of it all.

— "I'm sorry, Kresten"

The teenager shrugged, trying to hide his distress from the lovely maiden clinging at his arm.

— "Life is life. Dad is sad; he spends most of his time with the horses. So uncle Peter is helping us"

Frances nodded; she could easily imagine Jon sharing his distress with animals rather than humans. Children, on the other hand, were always much more adaptable than adults. She, as well, had lived through her father's death and recovered.

— "We have lots of them now. Have you come to pick one ?"

Speaking of horses…

— "Yeah. I might"

— "Ask father. He is over there"

The gangly teenager pointed his finger inelegantly to a table on the other side of the dancing ground, then whisked away the maiden who patiently awaited him. Frances stared, mesmerized, at the man she had tried so hard to forget for the past five years. He was sitting with his back to the table his daughter curled on his knees. There were more laugh lines around his eyes, a little more life in him that the last time they had met. Despite the loss of his wife two years prior, Jon seemed … at pace, nearly content. The child's lovely mop of blond curls bounced as she babbled, the chubby face of his daughter smiling. She was so beautiful, the portrait of her late mother, and Frances' heart clenched painfully at the memory of this quiet woman whose heart beat for Jon. At least, she had given them three more years together before fate had played its ill card, and a lovely daughter. Perhaps it had all been worth it.

Frances approached discreetly, her eyes having trouble leaving the handsome man that had haunted her days for so long. With his high cheekbones and full lips, she found him even more beautiful. Navigating between throngs of dancing and laughing people, she tried to keep in the shadows to observe quietly. Jon was a solider, very aware of his surroundings, especially after their past ordeal with the Delarue clan, and she always had trouble mingling with a crowd. Usually, her hair and choice of attire made her stand out anywhere. But today her long reddish strands – not uncommon amongst Irish immigrants - were braided and her skirt rather plain. Her neckline wasn't ostentatious even if her shirt showed a little cleavage hidden below the waistcoat compared to the very strict blouses she saw everywhere. Frances was no Mormon, and skilled enough to defend her honor if need be. The womanly attire didn't prevent her from being armed to the teeth, but she looked like a lady for once. Her heart throbbed, how she longed for Jon's easy smile, the one he addressed his daughter, to greet her. Would she dare approaching, or leave once more to never return ? Would she defile his late wife's memory with her desire to see him ? To touch him ? To be by his side, no matter what ? Frances was too experienced to let her heart lead her actions, and still… she just couldn't help being drawn to him. At last, fate decided in her stead, for a free spot magically appeared beside him; someone had left to dance.

Frances huffed, her heart hammering in her chest, and kicked herself mentally. Tingles ran down her spine as she made a beeline for it, remaining unseen until she claimed the seat with a move that could have been more graceful had this long skirt not impaired her mobility. Jon, who has been listening intently to his daughter, his head bent forward to hear her over the noise, spared her a glance. The standard check of a former solider to know who had taken the free spot. The assessment of danger. His eyes widened as he took her in, shock replacing wariness. He had not forgotten. Frances held his gaze steadily, a smile quirking her lips as she could, at last, contemplate the golden hues that lingered at the center of his irises. Time stopped for a moment, both of them lost into their respective mesmerizing eyes as the rest of the world disappeared. People were spinning in rhythm, the music still playing, laughs were exchanged and loud talk scratched her sensitive ears. But nothing else existed than Jon, and the incredulous smile that slowly crept up his handsome features.

Until something tugged at the sleeve of her blouse.

Frances blinked, then both adults switched their attention to the child who was eyeing them suspiciously, heads lowering at the same exact moment, as if synchronized.

— "Beautiful", she said.

And a smile bloomed upon Frances' face, her fingers caressing the child' face tenderly.

— "So are you, you look so much like your mother"

The child's blue eyes sparkled, so huge upon her chubby cheeks that the young lady couldn't help but be trapped.

— "Know mama ?"

There was so much hope in this little voice that Frances' heart melted.

— "Yes, I knew her. She was very kind, and beautiful. Your hair is the same color, and your curls just the same. There is a piece of her in you"

— "See papa, Caren like mama"

And Jon, overwhelmed by his child' words, could only nod and tighten his hold over little Caren, the living portrait of his dead wife. Hoping that the world would not take her from him, not too early, so that his heart could stay whole for a while. Not unscarred, though, war and loss had already dealt gruesome wounds.

Silence stretched, as if none of them knew how to breach the five past years. And when Kresten popped up out of nowhere to ask his sister for a dance, Jon could only send him a suspicious look. The youth grinned at his father, and carried the child away. Caren's laughter rang in the night, clearly discernible over the music and loud conversations of people getting inebriated. Jon relished in that laughter; Caren was the light of his life. But she didn't appease the solitude at night, when he crashed into bed, spent by the hard day's work, his late wife's smile absent. Everything was more difficult without her, but he refused to remarry for convenience. Jon remembered Marie's words as she died, the strength of her fingers fading as her blood flowed out from her womb. As if, on the brink of death, she had reached a state of clairvoyance where jealousy had no hold. How could he forget the guilt he had felt then, for having thought of another woman more often than not ? Not lust, nor desire, nor a lack of faith for he loved his wife dearly. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Frances always lingered. Where was she ? Was she still alive, fighting the world with her usual poise ?

At last, Jon cleared his voice, but he didn't turn to the redhead.

— "She told me to look for you"

— "Uh ?"

Her stunned response caused his laugh lines to tighten, his lips barely quirking up; he had forgotten how genuine the young woman could be. Well, not so young now, since he was nearly forty years old. Perhaps it was time for him to put his balls on the line, so Jon straightened, and turned to her, searching for her warm chocolate eyes.

— "My wife, when she died. She told me to look for you. That you would care for us in this lawless world"

The young woman nodded seriously; she expected more – did he remember nothing of Tristan ? – but didn't refute his late wife's words. Yes, she would lay down her life for him and his children, just like she had done the very first time. Except that he had been her man then.

And Jon still couldn't understand why such a beautiful, untamable woman had risked it. Her silence unnerved him, her gaze firmly set in his, as if they were dueling. But there was no fight in her eyes, only gentle coaxing. And God, she was beautiful ! So very different from Marie's classical features, fair haired and blue eyed. It was a different kind of beauty, something magnetic that called for his eyes to linger on her face, her throat, and the slight swell of her cleavage. Inviting soft flesh for his fingers to caress… Damn ! When had he become such a … ?

His self-recrimination were interrupted by her soft voice.

— "We protected each other once, a long time ago"

Jon was nowhere ready to admit that he had dreamt of her. His hallucination on the pole still triggered his guilt towards Marie, a man dreaming of another when his beautiful wife slept in his bed. How despicable!

— "What do you mean ?"

— "Do you remember anything of Tristan ?"

Jon kept his face carefully neutral, unyielding. Afraid. Guilty. And he wondered how long it would take for Frances to give up on him entirely and seek happiness somewhere else. Still…

— "Tell me about it."

— "I think… It will seem … crazy. But I dreamt of this knight, Tristan. A fierce warrior."

Her voice died then, and her warm gaze shifted to the floor while another dance started a few feet away. And Jon knew that he had to jump in lest she disappeared from his life. So the former soldier gathered what was left of his courage and told her what he knew.

— "Once. I saw you. I was tied up to the pole, hallucinating. I remembered your hand on my cheek. I loved you, and you loved me. And we died on the battlefield within an inch of each other, bleeding our lives out"

His words caused the young woman to gape at him in shock, until a lopsided smile found its way to her lips. Realisation that she wasn't crazy overlapping surprise and perhaps… hope, that they were meant to be.

— "Yes. I think Marie knew that I would protect you to the end."

— "She was as perceptive as she was unobstructive, my wife"

Silence greeted this statement loaded with fondness and regret. Wife. Late wife. Jon mulled over his own words, realizing how much Marie had shaped him as a man, as much her quiet nature called his, two sets of leaves carried by the winds, contemplating the lovely landscapes of Denmark, the ripples in the Tyrtrup river in the spring breeze. Memories from before the war, before Kresten even invited himself in her womb, before he emigrated to a ruthless world and had to adapt his game. Memories of lush fields and greenery.

He knew that, despite her silence, Marie had never retrieved the man that left her house to wage war on the Germans. Being a solider, and living seven years in those lawless deserts had called forth another side of him. Tristan, the fearsome knight of old. Hidden in the shadows, ready to strike should anything threaten his family. But Marie… she still was the woman whose hair sported wild flowers from spring pastures. Here in the west, she never found her place… never found a white bloom to adorn her blond curls with, nor her husband. The change had stolen that from her. Had Tristan found his way back to his warrior wife despite himself ? Could he accept it without being unfaithful to Marie ?

At last, Frances' hand landed upon his, and his whole body shivered from her touch.

— "I am sorry that Marie died", she said.

Marie, pronounced the Danish way… or was it her French accent ? It was nice that someone would remember her by her real name; here people called them John and Mary. His late wife hated it; she didn't want to be an American, clinging to her roots like a man lost at sea. How strange that the only stranger pronouncing her name properly would be … her. Frances' expression was so earnest that Jon had to look down to compose himself. The pain of loosing Marie wasn't as raw as it used to be; he could now remember their time together with fondness, even if the little pang into his heart would never go. Perhaps now was the time to honour her memory, and take another step. To live again. When his gaze returned to the young lady beside him, his features were more open than they had been for years.

— "She also asked me to be happy"

Frances smiled at the memory of Marie; she would have done anything for her husband. Including pushing him in another's arms to ensure his happiness after her own death. So she had seen, and understood what brewed between them, the strange companionship born from memories of old. Something Frances couldn't make heads or tails of such was the gaping wound festering in her heart, the armour guarding its depth. Men were off limits. They always had been. But Jon was different. From the first moment she had laid eyes upon his panicked gaze, pure concern for the well-being of his family, she had recognized him as a kindred soul. The dreams, he visions only fueled her feeling of recognition.

Sensing Jon's struggle, she lifted her other hand to cup his cheekbone, her thumb caressing his tanned skin gently. There was no surprise in his eyes when she came to him, just a mix of guilt and anticipation when he caught sight her tongue darting off to moisten her lips. There was no room for hesitation, her fear and dislike of men roughly trampled by her will to let this one, this very particular man, into her life. Frances's lips caressed his gently, relishing in his softness and the masculine scent that overwhelmed her senses. Just a slow, sensual kiss in which he slowly partook; the outcome of many years of shameful waiting. He was not forceful, nor disgusting, or anything alike; his presence strangely soothing. It was worth it, every minute of their long estrangement and anticipation, and she had trouble releasing him for the sensation of his skin below her fingers, of his lips upon hers were akin to finding home. Eventually, Frances pulled off, her hand still lingering on his cheek.

— "How about that ?", she asked, seeming unsure of herself.

Jon suddenly unleashed the fire of his longing, and pulled her flush against him to steal another kiss. His tongue begged for entrance, and despite the very inappropriate setting, she couldn't help but invite him in. A faint scent of smoke and ale lingered in his mouth, and she thoroughly explored it before she remembered they were sitting in plain sight. Her hesitation caused Jon to peck her lips, and retreat before a very satisfied smile brightened his features.

— "Well, that makes me happy", he told her, his smoldering gaze reducing her to ambers.

She should have been afraid of his proximity; the truth was that fear had never crept up her spine. Instead, her heart swelled with happiness, threatening to send her into a swoon. Jon set a hand around her waist, tugging her a little closer to watch the children dance. Frances angled her head to rest upon his shoulder, and for a moment, the world seemed complete again. Kresten and Caren were both making merry, laughing and spinning, wide smiles on their faces. As a father, Jon knew the reason of his eldest' mirth didn't rest in the dance. Sneaky child, literally pushing him into the lady's arms… the true son of his mother. But nothing was secure for now; he knew of Frances' own vendetta, of her traumas as well. Her ways might very well take her away from him anew.

— "It has been a long time. What decided you?" he asked.

— "Haren died, and I considered your offer"

Jon's spine stiffened; there was a colt he had kept for her all those years without telling anyone. Nor Marie, nor Peter knew that that particular horse wasn't his for he had spent a great deal of time training it. In case she needed it… In retrospect, maybe his wife had known all along. But now, his guts screamed at him to keep the horse hidden until Frances decided to stay by his side. But no matter what, Jon was a man of honour. The choice was hers; he owed her that much.

— "I am sorry for Haren. She was a good friend"

Frances nodded sadly; tears barely concealed.

— "Yes. Yes she was. I miss her terribly"

For a moment, Jon pondered about what to do, what to say. Until he decided than she deserved the plain truth. His voice was thick, though, his tongue heavy as he confessed the secret he had kept from Marie. He couldn't keep his head high, face dipping across her collarbone to watch the tiny rocks that littered the ground.

— "I raised a colt for you. Well trained. Ready when you are, if you want to have him"

Her sharp intake of breath betrayed her surprise.

— "You kept your promise", she breathed.

To this, Jon could only meet her eyes; the admiration that shone into their depth unsettled him, as if he had done something extraordinary.

— "I am a Danish soldier, Frances. Once earned, my loyalty never falters"

Frances nodded, touched that he had, after five years of absence, still thought of her. She had no doubt the stallion would be a fine beast, maybe the very best. Neither of the Great Dane family had made a secret of their gratitude. Still… she wasn't ready to replace Haren. Roaming the wilds, looking for revenge without her long-time friends just felt wrong. Going form his side, now that she knew what his kisses felt like – like being the princess of those fairytales of old – would be akin to tearing out her own limbs.

— "Well, I'll be glad to meet him"

Jon's breath hitched; his features frozen in an unreadable mask. Frances pursed her lips, wondering what he wanted, unsure about his motives. Did he want her away ? She had, after all, kissed him while he was married, without his permission. How presumptuous. Perhaps he only saw her as a troublemaker? But what of tonight ? He certainly seemed eager to see her. Since when did she care about what people thought of her ? Since when… ? But he wasn't people. He was Jon. And she had loved him since her eyes had met his; recognizing her soulmate. It took a trip to San Francisco and a disastrous marriage proposal for her to realise that.

— "Maybe it can wait a bit"

Heart swelling with hope, Jon couldn't contain his tension anymore as he blurted:

— "Will you stay, Frances ? With us… with me ?"

The young woman lifted her head from his shoulder – it was a great spot to rest – giving him a fond look before her lips quirked into a smile. Jon's heart was hammering so strongly that he wondered if it would survive the night. But the warmth of her chocolate eyes gave him hope.

— "Well, I might be quite ready to settle, the last years have been tiresome."

That was as much a yes as he would get, and relief flooded his chest. Yes, she would stay. The whole world suddenly seemed to spin faster, and the Danish solider gently kissed her plump lips anew. Keeping his face close to hers, a mischievous twinkle suddenly shone in his amber eyes.

— "How many more men have you saved and kissed?"

Frances snorted, the sound echoing from her body to his. It felt so good, to be close to someone again.

— "Saved ? A few."

Then she gave him a familiar 'no-nonsense' look.

— "Kissed ? None"

Her words hit him squarely in the chest, and for a moment, he had trouble breathing. Was she saying that… ? There had been no man in her life ? That she had waited for him all this time ? At his unspoken interrogation, the young woman nodded.

— "Every man was ruined when you walked into my life, every man has been ever since. There can be no other than you, Tris… Jon"

**_Yeah, I know. I took the easy way out there. But bear in mind that it was very common at the time to die in childbirth, especially since there wasn't always a midwife to attend births. This really is the wild wild west !_**


	6. Chapter 6 - Two lone souls

_**Hey. So this is the last installment of this story. I hope you enjoy anyway. Cheers !**_

Slightly overwhelmed by her admission, Jon couldn't reign the beating of his heart when she settled again against his shoulder. He kept his head down against hers, strands of greyish hair falling over his cheek to shield him from the world. Did he deserve such devotion, he that had been devoted to another ? But Frances didn't seem to care for technicalities as she waved to his children, wandering around tables to pick the scrapes. They waved back, then jumped onto uncle Peter, intercepting him before he spotted them, dragging him God knew where. He would owe his eldest a ton of thanks. The outcome purely rested in his hands now, and from the effort Caren and Kresten were exerting, it better be good.

— "So… you are ready to settle"

Frances nodded absently, but he knew she paid close attention to his words. Bending slightly to engulf her in the circle of his arms, he approached his lips from her ear.

— "As my wife ?"

The rosy hue that colored her cheeks was a sight to behold; one he thought quite impossible. Frances, the woman who killed men in cold blood and jumped onto a carriage at full speed, blushing. He couldn't believe it ! Blushing like a school girl ! She tried to hide her turmoil by teasing him.

— "You know, a man asked me the same thing two days ago."

Jon tensed slightly, appalled that another man than HIM would have the gall to do such a thing. His heart suddenly lurched; of course she would have proposals. She was a beautiful woman with lots of wits, a bright presence and courage for ten men. Who wouldn't want her ? But she had kissed him, now. And she was here, by his side, in his arms, so…

— "I gather your refused ?", he flatly retorted.

— "Correct. Refused and nearly put a bullet in his head"

A startled chuckle escaped his lips, causing Frances to smile. Trust the little lady to scare a man out of his wits… What had the man done ? Jon's eyes turned serious; there was a story she wasn't saying there. A story for another time since he didn't want her to escape again.

— "Will you put a bullet in mine for asking ?"

Frances' eyes widened slightly, and he caught a glimpse of panic in the depth of her gaze before her hand tightened on his own.

— "Never ! You know I would never harm you, Jon. I will protect you to my dying breath"

Jon sighed, kicking himself for his poor jest. His fingers lifted to caress the side of her face, his deep gaze plunging into hers to convey his feelings.

— "I know, and I wish you wouldn't at the same time. I want no harm to befall you, Frances"

— "Do not worry about me, I can take care of myself"

His gaze grew slightly distant, remembering how those two brutes had taken advantage of Kresten's weakness, five years ago, to kick him out of the coach. Had Frances not been there…

— "As I can. But sometimes, circumstances make it difficult to protect one's family. Two are better than one"

Frances nodded; she only had herself to protect until now. No one to help, but no one that depended on her either. Had she been burdened with a child all this time… she might very well be dead already.

— "I get what you mean. You watch my back, I watch yours. And together, we will be strong"

— "With Peter, yes"

The young woman pursed her lips in approval.

— "Good. He's efficient"

Jon nodded. If he had to take back Fort William, Peter would be the man he chose to lead the charge by his side. Still, he felt the need to shed some light about his character, about his deeds during the war. Jon was a natural fighter, a skilled shooter, and he didn't want Frances to discover his true nature after a skirmish. It wouldn't be fair to her, for until now, she had mainly found him in need of rescuing rather than the other way around. Yet knew, had someone harmed his family, that he would have wiped the entire Delarue clan by himself.[1]

— "Would you believe me if I told you I have the greatest kill count between Peter and I?"

Her earnest answer surprised him.

— "I would. I've seen your skills. As for the rest, it is written in your eyes. And I know who you were… I know who you are, now"

Jon's faint eyebrows suddenly disappeared behind his brownish strands, his eyes boring holes into hers. His voice was low, seductive as he asked:

— "And what do you read ?"

Frances dove into his gaze with such intensity that he felt like she was baring his soul. The words passed her lips as if she was deciphering a book.

— "Strength. Determination. A man who knows his own worth. Gentleness and care as well, and shyness"

Then she retreated a little, giving him a little space to recover from her soul reading. Was it the heat, or had his cheeks gained color ?

— "The Americans think me cold"

Frances gave him a lopsided smile.

— "… they probably can't read"

To say that Jon was floored was an understatement. He usually was the one whose stare caused unease, the one who assessed silently the character of others. Like a… scout ? It was easy, people didn't notice him, giving him all the time in the world to spot little details. A tightening of a jaw, a false glint in one's eyes, a gesture of affection, an unconcealed glance. But for once, he'd been submitted to his own treatment. Needless to say that her assessment was more than accurate. If she accepted to marry him, she wouldn't discover a stranger in her bed.

— "You never answered my question, Frances"

The young woman bit her lip, ill at ease.

— "I didn't, did I ? Probably avoiding the matter altogether"

Bluntness and shyness gathered in the same sentence. Jon summoned the last bits of his courage to tell her how he felt.

— "If you do not wish it Frances, you will not loose my respect nor my affection."

Frances took a deep breath, her whole frame shuddering like a child recovering from heavy sobs. Jon grew concerned, lifting her chin up with a gentle finger to gaze into her eyes. But she kept them resolutely cast down.

— "I wish to be yours… I have wished for nothing more for so long. I am just… I am a poor bargain regarding domestic matters."

Jon almost laughed in disbelief; he owed her his life for God's sake ! And that of his son. Without her, Caren wouldn't even exist. They had done without a woman for two years; there was nothing in the house he couldn't manage. But Frances was a slippery fish, and his hook not quite sufficiently buried yet. He couldn't let her self-depreciation whisk her away. He needed her, his children needed her. Now that she had walked back into his life, he couldn't even consider being alone again. Not when she could be his.

— "I doubt it, Frances, and even if it were true I couldn't care less. I do not ask to have a wife in the kitchen"

— "I… I'm sorry. I though this is what men wanted when they took a wife"

Jon frowned, unsure whether he should be amused or affronted. He was NOT one of those men; he, Peter and Kresten managed just fine on their own. Did she think he only wanted to ground her in the house to do wifely duties ? Didn't she realise how deeply he… cared ?

— "We have managed on our own, with a newborn no less. I'd carry you around if you had no legs, I'd dress and bath you if you had no hands. Even if you burnt everything you touched, I would still want you in my life"

His heartfelt confession caused her eyes to brighten with glee until a frown marred her features. She looked so young then, her eyebrows scrunched together like a school girl about to be chastened and Jon wondered what though had possibly crossed her mind to kill her good mood. It was difficult to remember she had passed thirty years old.

— "You are not going to ask me to wear those ridiculous dresses?"

Jon bit his lips to refrain from laughing. So this was what she was worried about; that he would try to change her to fit her into the role of a traditional spouse. Little did she know that Marie had clung to her dresses and traditions like dew to a blade of grass in Denmark. Jon never lended an ear to gossip, and had no care in the world about what his wife should wear; he'd rather escape the burden of forming an opinion about clothing anyway.

— "No, I certainly will not", he chuckled.

— "Or ask me to behave like the lady I am not, because I don't know how to be mild and accommodating, and…"

A finger landed on her lips, rough from hard work. If he found the man who had listed his conditions to Frances in San Francisco, he would give him quite a trashing. Provided the man didn't flee at the mere sight of him, that is.

— "How can you read me so well and be so wrong at the same time? You saved my family, I will love and respect you just the way you are"

Overwhelmed by his admission, the young woman closed her eyes for a moment; Jon's heart leapt in his throat. Perhaps he should have used another word, but it had escaped without a warning.

— "I'm… sorry. My fears are talking in my stead"

— "What are you afraid of, Frances ?"

He felt a wall erect between them, a fort so strong, so ancient that it would stand after millenia of wars and fighting. Would she come through the door, like the guardian she was, or barricade herself in ? Why was she retreating so suddenly ? At last, she spoke, and it all became clear.

— "I… I don't know how to be with a man"

Understanding hit him like a horse at full gallop. Did she mean… ? Jon' features remained still, but his eyes were ablaze. Frances had remained untouched ever since… ever since those pigs has stolen her virginity. It was no wonder, that she had sworn off men after what happened. Even more amazing that she was willing to open up. A tear ran down her cheek, the testimony of a weakness she could only confess to him. His chest swelled with pride, to be entrusted with such a burden, and he wiped it away with a caress.

He would have to handle her fears, and reign her anger. He wasn't exempt of it, for his past in the war had carved many scars. He swore then that Frances would only ever feel safe in his embrace, that he would be gentle, caring and loving to his very last breath. Cupping her cheek with his hand, he gently bent his forehead to hers, creating an intimate space to shield them from the music and laughter.

— "Do you trust me ?", he said, his silky tones sending shivers down her spine.

The young woman opened her eyes, the moisture making them shine even brighter.

— "With my life", was her shocking response.

Jon's breath hitched; coming from this particular woman, it was a gift like no other. There would be no deception, no lies and no failure. Her life, now thrust into his hands. A mighty responsibility, one he swore he would fulfill.

— "Come home with me, be my wife"

A little forceful, but with enough conviction to make her yield. She was a proud, self-sufficient woman who took no orders, dealing them more often than not. But when it came to him, she was ready to relent, ready to lay her life into his hands, and make a new one where solitude was but a memory. Tristan's stern voice had, once upon a time, held such sway over her; the only one able to rein her whims.

— "Aye. Aye, I will"

Jon's heart leapt with joy, and he couldn't help but give her a searing kiss before jumping to his feet like a young man. He was, after all, barely forty ; no need to waste away like an old man !

— "Come, let us celebrate", he said as he pulled her to the dance floor.

And they made merry, albeit Frances had never danced before, spending the best of nights to seal their newfound happiness. A little alcohol was consumed; her cheeks reddened, her laugh loosened and her steps faltered as she clung to his tall frame. When Peter eventually found his way to the dance floor, Caren nestled in his strong arms, he wondered if he had drunk too much. But Kresten's smug smile confirmed that, indeed, his baby brother had found a woman to share his life anew. And she looked suspiciously like…

— "Frances!" he exclaimed.

But nor Jon, nor the fiery lady heard him, too busy twirling on the dance floor, her red strands escaping the French braid. And he remarked that she wore a skirt, and seemed a little less wild than five years prior. An incredulous smile tugged at his lips as he realized the reason why Jon had always refused to look for another wife after Marie passed away. She was there, the woman he wanted.

— "New momma ?", came Caren's voice from within his arms.

And Peter smiled at the blond child, strangely happy.

— "Yes… Yes, I think she could be"

And so, Caren earned a mother, the house a caretaker, and Jon a beloved wife. She learnt to cook and sew, clean scratches and console little hearts, to bargain for fresh food. Her daggers and rifle never too far; her aim still true. Other mothers feared her when she rode into town, mounted on her new stallion, riding pants on display. Sure, there were sneers about the peculiar French woman, but none uttered too loud, mind you, for fear of retribution. Their children, unsurprisingly, were not often bothered, and it had nothing to do with their soldier of a father. It always made Jon laugh whenever the youth started peeing their pants as the idea of a scolding by his wife. For she was as quick-tempered as he was calm, and even if his glare could reduce anyone to tears, her fits of anger threatened to level the whole town. To him, though, she had become a new beacon of brightness as he had become hers. He respected Marie for seeing their bond, and throwing him into Frances' arms, and they both thanked her with prayers every so often. But the love he shared with his young, fiery wife held no equivalent. By her side, he felt alive again and ready to conquer the world.

The first night, she bit her lip to prevent herself from flinching away from his touch. There, exposed in just her chemise, she trembled like a lamb at the memories that assaulted her. Frowning, Jon pulled the sheets over her hammering chest, and she slightly relaxed. As if the thin piece of cloth could protect her from defilement. It broke his heart, and Jon only lay by her side, his hand upon her cheek as he kissed her goodnight. He didn't reach for her this night, nor the second, nor even the third. He just held her for days, giving her time to adjust to his touch, to the sensation of his lips upon her skin, to his arms winding around her, unrestraining. Although by then, his desire throbbed painfully. The circumstances of her terrible past were enough to cause him to back off whenever she tensed. A mighty strain upon his legendary restraint, for her proximity and soft skin spread fire through his veins. It even surprised him, to say the least, how he wanted her. As if he knew all along what it would be like to be one with her… as if he was rekindling a memory of a past long gone.

But he could not, and would not draw her into the throes of his own desire, despite the wolf howling inside him that urged him to claim her as his mate. They slept many a night tangled like a set of young lovers, her head upon his chest, her hair tumbling over her slender frame, his hand lost into the silky cascade, brushing it to the dip of her waist but never further. Every single night, every single morning, he found her looking at him with awe, as if she couldn't believe that she lay with a man. She was so beautiful, so lovely that he sometimes felt inadequate. The former solider only tightened his arm around her shoulders then, his fingers grazing her soft skin with calloused ones; Jon ever had enough of her nestling against him. He had never been so grateful for winter… And when she told him he was a handsome man, he accepted it for she seemed happy enough by his side.

Little by little, her nightmares abated and her tense muscles loosened up. Jon realized that the more he respected her, the less angry she became. She trusted him by then, as a person, and even more importantly, as a man. Sometimes, Frances came to him during the day, circling his frame for a hug, touching the bare skin of his back when he shed his chemise. Shyness fleeing with the wind, replaced by the embryo of desire as she watched, fascinated, the ripples of his defined muscles under soaked skin. At night though… at night everything was different. Darkness called unwanted memories. Until one day, her own love overcame her fears, and she pulled him to her. Jon complied heartily, mindful to keep her covered, relinquishing the lead even if his restraint ebbed away like snow melts under the heat of a thousand suns. Slowly, gently, Jon made her his wife, kissing every inch of her as she moulded around him like a sheath to a sword. The look on her face was priceless when her body eventually gave in, and he swore he had never seen her more beautiful that with this blissful smile. She cried then, discovering for the first time after thirty-one years of life that love could indeed be beautiful.

Her belly quickened with child so readily that she didn't even bleed. Jon couldn't be more proud; he was, after all, an efficient man. And she looked so magnificent with the bump that graced her slender frame that he couldn't help but claim credit. It brought colors to her cheeks, and a healthy glow that transformed her frowns into something more. As if she had found her place in the world; by his side. Caren was ecstatic to welcome a little brother or a little sister and cuddled Frances' belly as if she was her own mother. The sight often brough tears to his eyes; he blinked them away before his women could spot them. But he knew, by the way Frances quirked her eyebrow with a radiant smile on her face, that she sensed his turmoil. For despite the happiness lingered a crippling fear; this is how Marie had left, vanquished by childbirth. Would Frances disappear from his life so soon after she had brightened it anew ? When he lay at night, the child kicking against his hand when his wife held him tight, she caressed his cheeks and whispered that she would stick around until the day he died. And his fears abated somehow, because she always seemed to know how things would turn out. She was a little magical, this new wife of his. A little fairy, like the legendary beings of his childhood stories.

And when the day came for the baby to be born, only a look was exchanged before he sent Kresten away with his little sister. By now, he knew his wife's posture by heart, and the slight twitch her body gave when contractions hit. Pain shone in her eyes, clear as day. Caren kissed Frances on the cheek, hugging her snuggly with little words of love. Jon had to shoo her away, his brown gaze so concerned, so fearful that his daughter embraced him as well.

— "All is well, papa"

Papa, the French for father. Between two birth pains, Frances chuckled at the little lady with fondness. And as he watched his retreating son and the gentle mop of Caren's curls, he could only pray to God that they would still have a mother to return to. Jon could only marvel at his wife's strength as she silently rode the pain of childbirth. Her only requirement was his presence by her side, and he stayed to lend his strength to the extraordinary woman that had chosen to make him his mate. A fact he still had trouble wrapping his head around; he strived each day to be up to the task. The midwife came later at night – thank god there was one in town ! – and tried to kick him out of the house, pretexting it was no place for men. Frances' glare was all it took for him to stubbornly refuse. He was the cause of it all; he wouldn't shy away from it. Perhaps his absence had been Marie's downfall, because she lacked his strength and encouragement. Today, no amount of grumbling from the midwife would take him away; the matron eventually relented. And he was proud, and scared altogether, but didn't leave Frances side as she pushed this new life away from her womb, teeth gritted in the effort, her fingers tightly woven in his. The first cry of a read haired daughter – Emma – felt like the first mouthful of water she had given him five years ago.

Jon cried with joy that day, witnessing, firsthand, the incredible act of his baby born into the world.

Two years later, another child graced Jon and Frances' house; a feeble boy who died within two weeks of his birth. Jon buried him under the sole tree of his property, next to Marie. He knew Frances paid the little boy lots of visits, sometime he joined her, and held her as she cried. By then, they thought the walz of newborns was over in their life. They had both aged and it brough a balm to their heart to think they wouldn't have to live though this heartbreak again. For five years, it seemed like their prayers were answered. Their first grandchild – Kresten's son – had seen the world but a few months before when Frances stopped bleeding. The midwife said it was a little early – she was only forty – but nothing alarming. Until morning sickness told them everything they needed to know. Jon's wife was with child again. A baby had invited himself in her womb nine years after their marriage ! Perhaps it was a way to celebrate their love, a symbol to show Jon how intemporal they were. For he remembered, sometimes, the couple of warriors that died on the battlefield. And he hoped to never see Frances taking her last breath, bloodied and bruised. Peter supported them through this difficult pregnancy, acting as his best friend and conscience whenever he lost patience with his other children. Uncle Peter was the best of the best, teaching how to care for animals, how to shoot, and how to be a good solider to boys and girls alike. Caren adored him, and the blond Dane held the little girl close to his heart, especially since he never married.

Birth was difficult - the baby very nearly carried his mother off. But the proud smile on Jon's face as he held his 9 pounds son was worth it all, and Frances swore, once more, than nothing was more inspiring than his joyful features and laugh lines. But she was weak, her blood still leaking, and the midwife held not much hope. Jon prayed all night that his second wife would not fall to the darkness, holding her hand; he was nowhere ready to loose her. Nine years had been too short, he wanted more of her, more of her laugh, more of her muffled sounds whenever he loved her, more of her gentle caress over his dusty and overheated body whenever he came home. More quirks of her eyebrows whenever he felt sassy, more water poured over his body whenever she washed his hair, more burnt meat when she forgot their food on the stove to take care of his needs… or hers. More of her tipsy giggles whenever she indulged in alcohol – she could never hold her liquor – more times when he would just scoop her into his arms and bring her to bed. She looked so young then, like a blushing bride with her cheeks flushed. Just more time with her. His prayers were answered, and Frances slowly recovered, nursing their son into a hearty boy that looked so much like him that it felt like staring in a mirror.

They both passed away twenty-three years later, five years after Peter. By then, Jon was an old man of sixty-nine – an age he had reached thanks to his strong constitution and Frances' pleas that he could not leave her alone. She didn't linger after his death, her heart had been broken too many times by then. Especially after lovely Caren had succumbed to an outbreak of Measles five years prior with her firstborn. The world simply wasn't worth living anymore, and so she fell ill, coughed her sadness away, and was buried nary three months later beside her husband with a smile on her face.

They say he was waiting for her in the afterlife to take her to the light. I don't doubt it. Some souls are linked for eternity, and those two were quite a sight to behold.

* * *

[1] Which is the original scenario. Peter dies, his wife and kid dies, and he shoots them all into tiny little pieces. Nice movie :p


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